


Truth to Triumph

by gotham_ruaidh



Series: Gotham's non-"Imagine" writings [10]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2019-10-30 08:23:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 25,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17825267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotham_ruaidh/pseuds/gotham_ruaidh
Summary: The General Slocum disaster in New York City's East River on June 15, 1904 claimed over 1,000 lives. Jamie Fraser is reporting on the tragedy for the New York World when he meets Dr. Claire Beauchamp as she tends to the survivors. In the aftermath they work together for justice - and find beauty in the ashes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/182706885989/truth-to-triumph-setting-the-stage)

**Setting The Stage**

 

Wednesday, June 15, 1904 was the second-deadliest day in New York City history, surpassed only by the terrorist attack of September 11, 2001.

On that gorgeous summer morning, a paddleboat steamship, the General Slocum, had been chartered by the St. Mark’s Evangelical Lutheran Church. Its 1,358 passengers came largely from the German-American community of Little Germany - Kleindeutschland - on the Lower East Side. The passengers - mostly women and children - had paid a small fee to enjoy the boat trip up the East River to Long Island, where a fun-filled day of picnicking and fellowship awaited.

It’s still not known how the fire started, not too long after the Slocum disembarked from Pier 3. But the fire - and the resulting panic - spread quickly. Those who didn’t burn to death on the boat jumped into the river - only to drown, weighted down by their heavy clothing.

The final death toll stood at over 1,000 - 1,021 to be precise. For many days afterward, bodies washed ashore on the banks of the East River and the dozens of small islands that dot the river.

(courtesy [The New York Public Library](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.nypl.org%2Fblog%2F2011%2F06%2F13%2Fgreat-slocum-disaster-june-15-1904&t=Yzc0MWFkN2Y1NDBkNTI4ZGU0MjA0ZWM2ZWQ1ZTI3OTc4NjAwMzA0MSxiU09nTklnNg%3D%3D&b=t%3AD4g0V6eDPQOnNH0JBcjUww&p=https%3A%2F%2Fgotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F182706885989%2Ftruth-to-triumph-setting-the-stage&m=0))

In the years that followed, it became clear that what we would consider basic safety standards today simply did not exist on the Slocum. Life boats were locked. Life jackets literally disintegrated in the hands of desperate passengers. The Slocum’s crew had no safety training. The only person who served a criminal sentence was the ship’s captain - and his sentence was commuted, for good behavior, through a presidential pardon in 1911.

The Slocum disaster single-handedly destroyed the once-thriving neighborhood of Kleindeutschland, and changed the face of New York City forever.

This is the world in which _Truth to Triumph_ takes place.

We’ll get our first introduction to that world on Wednesday. 

The General Slocum disaster has always fascinated me - especially how most New Yorkers have no idea that such a terrible thing ever occurred. This story has been quite a long time in the making - it’s required a lot of research, and a lot of creative thinking. It’s my way of shining a light on the memory of all those people who lost their lives so tragically, so needlessly, over 110 years ago. 

I can’t wait to introduce you to a very different Jamie and Claire - and to take you on their journey.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/182780796609/truth-to-triumph)

**Prologue**

**June 15, 1904**

_(The New York World Building, 99 Park Row (with City Hall in the foreground); early 20th century. Believe it or not, it was the tallest building in the world for 4 years - 1890-1894. Sadly this beautiful building was demolished in 1955)_

 

By all accounts, June 15, 1904 was a glorious Wednesday morning.

In the Park Row newsroom of the New York _World_ – over one million copies in circulation per day – Jamie Fraser, up-and-coming reporter, furiously pounded the keys of his typewriter.

Jamie had made a name for himself by reporting what others derided as “immigrant issues” – the horrible working hours for women to produce shirtwaists, the dangerous work of cutting open the street to lay rail for the new Sub-Way lines, the squalid living conditions in the Italian and Jewish neighborhoods barely half a mile from his office. Murder and corruption and prostitution and destitution and good girls gone bad.

And with the _World_ ’s penchant for what its detractors dismissed as “yellow journalism” – if it bleeds, it leads, they sneered – the public could never get enough. Mr. Pulitzer – the owner and editor-in-chief – knew that the city’s future would be driven by the thousands upon thousands of immigrants arriving at Ellis Island every year, regardless what anyone else had to say.

So Jamie continued to report. His latest articles about secret opium dens in Chinatown had proven particularly popular – and last night he’d received a tip that a city councilman had been caught in a delicate situation in a Doyers Street establishment. This afternoon he’d walk over there, make some inquiries, ferret out the rest of the story.

Just after lunch (pastrami and mustard, from the delicatessen down the block), Ned Gowan – a crusty old reporter who had sold papers on the streets when Lincoln was president – appeared at Jamie’s desk.

“I’m sending you out on assignment, Fraser.”

Jamie didn’t even look up. “What for? Another newsboy hit by a trolley? Has Mr. Hearst said something foolish on the campaign trail again?”

“No, son. A tragedy of the highest order.”

Born reporter that he was, Jamie immediately looked up.

“Some pleasure boat full of Germans – families – caught fire in the East River this morning. Lots of them are dead.”

“My God,” Jamie gaped.

“This is a direct order from the Big Man himself. Mr. Pulitzer has requested you personally. The captain crashed the boat far upriver – it’s called North Brother Island, where the hospital for consumption patients is.”

Already Jamie was frantically searching for hat, notepad, and pencil.

“You’re to go there, take the temperature of the scene. See if you can interview any survivors.”

Jamie threw the dust cover over his typewriter.

“I’ll make a call to someone I know. He can take you there on his boat. He docks at Pier 15, over on South Street.”

“Right away!”

“Be careful!” Ned warned. But Jamie was already gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/182936080785/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 1: The Disaster**

**June 15, 1904**

_The tragic shores of North Brother Island. June 15, 1904._

_–_

Jamie flew on his bicycle down Park Row and turned left on Frankfort Street, dodging the trolleys and motorcars, careful to not hit the sallow-faced Italian kids selling apples and oysters. It was just minutes to the riverfront at South Street, full of horse-drawn carts and yammering seamen and painted whores and ragged kids gleefully picking pockets.

He dismounted and walked the bike over to Pier 15, in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, pushing through the throng.

“Are you Fraser?” A man shouted, jauntily waving a copy of that day’s World.

Jamie shooed away a grimy-faced boy holding bootblacking supplies. “I am.”

“Phew.” The man beckoned him closer. “I’m Arch Bug. Mr. Gowan called me – and I’m proud of myself that I figured out how to get your attention! He said you’d be easy to find – not too many red-headed men in the city these days, even with all the Irish! But you’re not here to dawdle – here, let me take you to my boat.”

Together they wove through the crowd and then down a rickety, waterlogged set of wooden stairs, before carefully stepping across the gap to set foot on a small but clearly carefully maintained boat.

“The Murdina is my life blood,” Mr. Bug explained, “and Ned and I go way back. I take him wherever he needs to go, and I get paid for it. Simple.”

A younger man materialized from the shaded deck at the front of the boat, and touched the brim of his cap in greeting.

“This here is my son Angus – he’s my second-in-command. You ready?”

Clearly it was a rhetorical question, because Angus then ducked back under the deck to start up the motor. Jamie scrambled for a handhold as Angus began carefully steering the boat out of its berth and into the narrow channel. Too late Jamie realized that he hadn’t told Mr. Bug about his seasickness.

“Ned told me that there was an accident today? Some kind of pleasure cruise full of Germans?”

“Yes – happened a few hours ago. Can’t you smell it?”

And suddenly Jamie did. The stench of burnt timbers. Burnt flesh.

Slowly, steadily the boat powered up the East River. Past the steeple in Greenpoint, Brooklyn to the east. Past the dozens and dozens of warehouses on the Manhattan side. Carefully around Welfare Island, full of dozens of red brick buildings where those with contagious diseases were sent to recuperate. From the water, Jamie saw dozens of patients lounging around outside, desperately breathing in fresh air.

“What do you know about this German boat, Mr. Bug?”

“Only that it was one of those paddle steamers that church groups or women’s organizations often rent. This one was full of families from a church in Little Germany. You ever been down there?”

“I have,” Jamie sighed. “Really great pickles.”

“From what I heard, the fire was something awful. Mothers throwing their kids into the water.”

By Jamie’s estimation they had now passed Long Island City on the right – and that’s when the first burnt timber bobbed by in the swells.

“Have you ever been swimming in the East River, Mr. Fraser?”

“Can’t say I have. Why do you ask?”

“Good thing you haven’t. The current is something fierce. Even the strongest swimmer has a tough time.”

They saw the first body right after passing Astoria, following the river’s curve around Randall’s Island.

A woman. Still wearing her dark, sober skirts. Face and hands burned beyond recognition.

Angus crossed himself, but kept going.

Then more charred debris.

“Holy mother of God,” Jamie whispered, crossing himself.

More bodies. Clustered together.

“Poor bastards have lived in Germany or the tenements all their lives,” Mr. Bug murmured. “They couldn’t swim to save themselves.”

They passed a child, floating face down.

“Move to the center of the channel, Angus,” Mr. Bug quietly requested. “The river’s pushing the bodies to the shoreline.”

Jamie looked ahead, toward the point where the East River opened into a wider body of water.

“Do you know what we call this area, Mr. Fraser? The Hell Gate. On account of the currents.”

Today it was hell for a different reason. Dozens and dozens of bodies. Life vests – or what would have once been life vests - strangely disintegrated, perhaps by the heat.

Shoes. Food. Picnic baskets

Other boats motored by – plucking the dead from the water. Rifling through the pockets of the men.

“How could this happen?”

“I guess that’s what Ned wants you to find out, Mr. Fraser.”

And ahead, on the shore of North Brother Island – the smoking, hulking wreck of the General Slocum. Smokestacks jutting drunkenly from the riverbed. And dozens of dots on the banks of the island.

They got closer. The water was thick with charred timbers from the ship and discarded clothes and bodies, and Angus had to cut the motor. Mr. Bug reached somewhere along the inside of the deck and produced a long, wide oar. Together father and son began to row.

The brick hospital buildings edged closer. Now Jamie could see dozens of nurses – their immaculately white uniforms and aprons stained with soot and blood and seawater – flitting between stations in a makeshift outdoor triage unit.

Bulky orderlies lumbered back and forth from the shore, piling up bodies. A herd of dazed children milled about to one side – clearly survivors from the terrible disaster.

They pulled up at the dock. Angus looked over his shoulder – saw dozens of burned bodies lined up on the shore – and was neatly sick over the side of the boat.

Mr. Bug extended a steadying hand and helped Jamie step onto the dock. “Good luck, son. You’re going to need a thick stomach today.”

It was then that Jamie realized for the first time in his life, he hadn’t felt nauseous on a boat. For the horror of what he had seen had knocked it all out of him.

“Thank you,” he choked. “Thank you.”

Mr. Bug nodded, and Jamie turned and strode down the dock.

The seagulls screamed overhead. An orderly shooed an angry bird away from pecking the eyes of a drowned man, his face frozen in a grimace of sheer terror

Where to even begin?

Clearly the nurses and orderlies had the situation under control as best they could; other volunteers had arrived on the scene as well, offering all forms of medical support. A kitchen had been set up and was doling out hot broth and coffee to shivering survivors, wrapped in thick blankets despite the early summer heat.

It dawned on Jamie that all of this had to be done outside, for fear that the survivors would catch one of the infectious diseases that the hospital patients were quarantined here for.

So Jamie wandered – taking in the scene and thousands of tiny details. For once, not needing to scribble a single note in his notepad.

The tiny girl, whose jaunty summer pinafore was singed on one side, clutching her toy bunny.

The woman sobbing inconsolably into the arms of a man.

The priest whose parishioners had rowed him to the island, blessing the foreheads of three boys sitting dazed under a tree.

The pile of discarded hats and food items and more half-disintegrated life preservers off to one side.

“I need more bandages!”

He turned to see a woman – a nurse – her apron smeared with blood and soot, pointing an accusing finger at an orderly. “And they must be fresh bandages! They need to be sterile!”

The man huffed but quickly darted away and back to the hospital buildings.

The woman sighed, putting her hands on her hips.

Jamie saw his chance.

“Excuse me, miss?”

The woman whirled to face him. She wiped her brow with a grimy sleeve. Amid the melee she must have lost her wimple, for her wild, curly hair was uncovered.

“Who the hell are you?”

Jamie straightened, and touched the brim of his hat in greeting. “My name is James Fraser. I’m a reporter with the New York World. I’ve been sent here to report on the story.”

Her eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a story. It’s a tragedy. There could be more than a thousand dead.”

He swallowed. “What have you learned from the survivors?”

“My German isn’t great, Mr. Fraser. At this point I know that dozens of children are orphans and that dozens of parents have lost their children. I can’t save them all, but I can save the ones in front of me. Now if you’ll excuse me –“

“Miss?”

She whirled to face him. Impatient.

“Yes?”

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s because I didn’t give it to you. I am Dr. Claire Beauchamp. Yes, I’m a doctor. Write that down in your stupid notebook. And I’ll be damned if someone dies on me now because I’m too busy talking to scum of the earth reporters like you.”

Then she disappeared into the throng.

Chastised for the first time in a very long time, Jamie swallowed, then returned to the group on the shore. Watching them pull more and more contorted bodies from the water.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/183093470138/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 2: The Aftermath**

**June 30, 1904**

_The front page of The World - Evening Edition, June 15, 1904._

 

On the evening of June 15, The World – Evening Edition bore three-inch headlines blaring the bare facts about the disaster and preliminary estimates on the loss of life – LIST OF SLOCUM’S DEAD NOW MAY REACH 1,000. Counts of the bodies that had come ashore on all the different islands. Details about the information bureau the paper had set up on East Sixth Street, the heart of the Kleindeutschland – Little Germany – neighborhood where most passengers were from.

The story of four-year-old Lizzie Krieger:

_Out of the peril from fire and water came four-year-old Lizzie Krieger without a smudge on her red gown, without a stain on her placid pretty face. She was taken to the Alexander avenue station, where she sat for two hours in a room in which dead women and children were laid out in three long rows._

_Her big brown eyes swept over the crowd, as it surged in and out seeking to identify perhaps the dead. To all inquiries she had but one reply:_

_“My mamma is all burned up. I saw her burn.”_

Over 1,300 people – most of them German immigrants or German-speaking families – were on the General Slocum when it caught fire. Their church had rented the boat for a pleasure cruise, on their way to a church-sponsored picnic on Long Island. As it was a Wednesday – and the middle of the working week – the majority of passengers were women and children, as their husbands and fathers could not afford to take the time off work to join them.

There was still much to discover about the tragedy itself – why it had happened, why it had been so catastrophic, who was to be held accountable.

But in the days immediately following the tragedy, as Jamie Fraser continued to relay facts back to Park Row from people he interviewed in Yorkville and Kleindeutschland and North Brother Island and Rikers Island – another story formed in his mind.

Not to rehash the details of the tragedy itself – but rather to share an account of the aftermath on North Brother Island. Cleverly focused on individual stories of survivors, and those assisting in the recovery.

The mother who found her child at the end of the day – with severe burns to her arms, but otherwise unharmed.

The hospital orderly who went mad when he realized the body he had pulled from the water was his sister-in-law.

The nurse who soothed screaming, confused children as she treated their burns.

The fire of Dr. Claire Beauchamp – one of the only women practicing medicine in the entire city – and her drive and determination to save as many people as possible.

All the personal stories were touching – but none resonated with him as much as Dr. Beauchamp.

He had spoken with her for all of three minutes on the day of the disaster, completely by chance. But something powerful about her called to him – something mysterious.

The article was a sensation – he was the toast of the town. Mr. Pulitzer very publicly donated the proceeds for the entire week’s newspaper sales to a fund he had set up to support Slocum survivors and their families.

The weeks after the Slocum disaster were the most success Jamie had had in his career.

And yet all he wanted was to see her again.

To speak with her properly. To get to know her.

So many unanswered questions.

How she was trained as a doctor. How she came to be on that island. How she was ever able to survive the gruesomeness of that day – that day that still haunted his dreams.

So two weeks after the tragedy, he found himself yet again on a boat steaming up the East River to North Brother Island…only this time, it was an overcast day, and no bodies impeded the man at the tiller.

He landed at the same dock on the island – but it was not the same. Quiet and peaceful; a few patients out and about, strolling by the riverside. Suddenly he felt foolish as he disembarked – he had no real plan, no objective other than to see her straightaway. He didn’t even know if she’d be there.

He’d done all his basic background research, of course. Late one night, when he had been working too much to unsuccessfully keep her face from his mind, he spent a few hours down in the basement of the World’s building on Park Row, digging through the dusty archives, sneezing along with Willie Coulter, the bespectacled clerk who enjoyed telling the newsboys about the time he had met Abe Lincoln as a young reporter covering the Cooper Union speech in 1860.

The Beauchamp family was respectable, if not yet counted among the so-called “400” of elite New York society. Claire’s father Henry Beauchamp was an architect who designed and supervised construction of the mansions springing up along Fifth Avenue – for the Vanderbilts, the Morgans, the Dyckmans, the Astors – the crème de la crème of high society. His wife Julia was wealthy in her own right, her late father Lambert Moriston having been a merchant with roots in New York for over two hundred years; Julia’s brother Quentin Lambert still ran the family emporium, a small yet prosperous shop on the exclusive Ladies Mile and in the shadow of the new, odd Flatiron Building off Madison Square.

All of this was a matter of public record – Henry’s commissions, quotes from his very satisfied clients, advertisements for Moriston’s latest shipments of furs from Canada and hats from Paris.

And Claire – an only child, the apple of her parents’ eye. Unlike most girls – women – of her age and means, rarely was her name found in the society pages. Rather, Jamie came across references to her charitable works; how she graduated first in her class at Barnard College, then how she was the first woman admitted to study medicine at the New York University, graduating at the top of her class. There was no mention of how long she had held the position at the sanitarium on North Brother Island, but everyone knew that it was where doctors went when they wanted a challenge.

Or had no other options. For there was only one mention Jamie could find that even hinted at her personal life – a six-year-old announcement of her engagement to one Jonathan Wolverton Randall, professor of history at Columbia. The second son of Denys “Railroad” Randall, a close business associate of the Vanderbilt family, Jack’s elder brother Edward had followed in their father’s footsteps, rising in the ranks of the family’s railroad empire, which operated under the banner of Wentworth Industries. Edward Randall had even expanded its interests into shipping, no doubt to take advantage of the hundreds of ships bringing thousands upon thousands of immigrants to New York every month. With his elder brother otherwise occupied, Jack was left to follow his own pursuits – classical history, as well as (presumably) the beautiful Barnard students he often taught across the street from his office at Columbia.

From his work at the newspaper, Jamie knew that the Randalls, who to all outward appearances oversaw a well-run firm, still were the subject of frequent rumors of ill-advised side investments. Much like how one of the Vanderbilt’s poor investment decisions had nearly bankrupted one of the family businesses twenty years before, the Randalls had avoided scandal only by very tightly closing ranks and pitching in to bridge the gap.

Jamie couldn’t find any record of a marriage announcement for Jack and Claire – just a breathless society column spilling the details of the broken Randall/Beauchamp engagement, scarcely three months after it had been announced.

And then because he couldn’t help himself, he found Randall’s other announcements – specifically, for his subsequent engagement and marriage, just a year later, to Mary Hawkins, the only child of Edward Hawkins, a partner in Wentworth Industries.

Somewhere to Jamie’s left, a large fish splashed out of the water – returning his meandering mind to the present. He knew he had gone too far in trying to find out everything he could about the mysterious Dr. Claire Beauchamp – but something about her drew her to him. Something that spoke to him, even in their few brief moments together. Called to him. Pushed him to find more, to learn more, to understand more.

He wanted to _know_ her. Not just to write a feature article on her – Lord knew, the editors would be all over it. But to truly _know_ her.

What was it that drew him to her, so strongly?

And dare he be so forward with her, even if he was lucky enough to find her today? Of course he could comfortably explain his visit in the context of a new article he was writing, now that the Slocum stories were dying down. What was life really like in the sanitariums and isolation hospitals that dotted the tiny islands in the East River? Just hundreds of yards away from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, yet so very far away in terms of who the people were, their living standards, how they came to be there – and what their fate would be once they were released, if they ever were released…

Fifteen minutes later he was still pondering that question, after wandering the corridors, finding the nurses’ station, and inquiring after Dr. Beauchamp.

But just then, she whirled around the corner and into the hallway – and nearly collided with him.

“Hello.” His confident voice cracked just a bit. “Do you remember me?”

She frowned, one hand on her hip. “You’re the idiot reporter who interrupted me when we were dealing with the Slocum survivors.”

He coughed. “Yes. I was wondering, Dr. Beauchamp – ”

“I don’t know why the hell you’ve come back. I’m in the middle of a shift and I’m doing rounds. Some of the victims are still here, you know – I’ve been extra vigilant with them, if you care to report on that.”

He squared his chin. Knowing he had seconds to capture her attention, or risk losing it forever. “I’d like to speak with you again, Doctor. You really impressed me when I was here last – it’s inspired me to write a follow-up article, maybe even an entire series, about places like this hospital. To understand how they came to be, and how people come to be here. I wanted to start with you, if that would be all right.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What are you getting at? What’s your endgame?”

Feeling naked, he said the first words that came to mind. “I just want to understand how you came to be here. I’ll speak with other doctors or nurses or whoever you think would be appropriate. But I wanted to start with you.”

A nurse bounded around the corner, plowing into his shoulder. Quickly he regained his footing. Watching her watch him, appraise him.

“You’ll have to wait until my shift is over in an hour.”

“That’s fine. Tell me where I can wait.”

She pondered this for a long moment. “There are a few benches outside the east wing – I go there on my breaks. It’s quiet. I’ll find you there.”

He nodded his thanks – but she was already gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/183264771513/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 3: The Interview**

**June 30, 1904**

_Riverside Hospital, North Brother Island. Photographed by Jacob Riis, 1902_.

 

For the next ninety minutes he waited where she had requested, fearing as the minutes ticked by that she would stand him up. That he had been too forward. That this had all been a bad, stupid, misguided idea.

But eventually, she appeared – uniform crisp despite what must have been a long and tiring shift. Hair still neatly held back in a sober chignon.

Suddenly the sun came out, there between the sturdy brick buildings, with the chirps of birds and the yells of men playing baseball echoing through the courtyard

The almost blinding rays made him realize that unlike almost any other lady of her station in society, she didn’t wear a hat. At first she squinted at him in the harsh sunshine – but then just brought up a hand as a makeshift shield. Never once did she complain. She just got on with it.

Nervously he cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Beauchamp.”

“I hope you won’t waste my time, Mr. – ”

“It’s Fraser. James Fraser. But my parents called me Jamie.”

She smiled politely, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Immediately slipping into the undoubtedly familiar demeanor that she had been raised with – professional. Detached.

“Well it’s nice to officially meet you, Jamie. What is it you want to know?”

For the next half hour they talked. He took notes in the canvas-bound notebook that was always in his breast pocket. Learning about the hospital, its mission, its patients. Safe, non-controversial topics. Steering away from anything personal.

He watched her hands – no rings, no bracelets, not even a watch. Laid flat on her lap, or twisting her fingers together as she spoke. Graceful fingers, marked with cuts and scabs and bruises and short, broken fingernails – hallmarks of her profession.

Her answers were eloquent, factual – never personal. Clearly proud of the work done at the sanitarium, and the patients they were able to help. But she never personalized it – never indicated that it was because of  _her_  that the hospital achieved its mission in one way or the other.

Speaking thus made her appear lonely; isolated; alone.

“And if I may ask – how is it to work here as a female doctor?”

She shifted a bit on the bench before answering. “You may ask. And I’d imagine that any doctor – male or female – faces challenges in working here. The patients can be unpredictable. Our reputation is that people get sent to us when they have no place else to go – or have exhausted all other options.”

She paused. “I do feel as though sometimes I need to work twice as hard to prove myself – to the patients, and their families. And to the other doctors. Of course I make mistakes – we all do – but I feel like mine are scrutinized much more than theirs.”

The early afternoon sun had disappeared behind the clouds again, so as she spoke, she looked directly at him. Confidently.

“And, to be honest, some of the nurses don’t know what to make of me. I’m not one of them – but they don’t regard me as they do the other doctors. Some of them don’t know what to do with me.”

“Does that mean they don’t listen to you?”

“More like, some of them listen to me more than the other doctors. And some of them will ask another doctor to validate my orders.”

“That must be difficult.”

“Everything about this job is difficult.”

“Then why do it?”

She took so long to answer the question that he thought perhaps she hadn’t heard him. Rude as it was to repeat himself, he was prepared to do so, but she beat him to it.

“Because, except for one other aspect of my life, this work is more important to me than anything. Proving to everyone that I can be successful – that’s worth the struggle. Changing minds, one at a time.”

“Some might say that’s heroic.”

She snorted. “I’m certainly not a hero.”

“You’re brave enough to be called one.”

“Am I?” Her graceful brows raised skeptically. “You’d be surprised. I’ve simply done what I was supposed to do. What I vowed to do, when I took the oath.”

He thought long and hard about what to say next.

“I was just…so struck by you, on that terrible day. How you brought order to the chaos. And how everyone just listens to you, and does as you ask.”

She huffed. “You’d be surprised.”

“I know. But you – you are singular. You’re not like anyone else.”

He swallowed. It was now or never.

“I – I want to know you, Claire.”

She froze still. A few loose tendrils of hair gently swayed in the breeze.

He saw his opportunity – and spoke without thinking.

“May I come call on you?”

It took forever for her to answer. For she knew it would deeply affect them both.

“You may – but on  _my_  terms.”

“Of course.” Surely it couldn’t be this easy. “What are they?”

“Come to my family’s home. You’ll see.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/183424321768/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 4: The Secret**

**July 6, 1904**  

 

Six days later, Jamie arrived at the Beauchamp family brownstone on East Twenty-Second Street and Third Avenue, holding a bottle of wine wrapped in a paper bag.

The home couldn’t have been any different from the two-room tenement he had grown up in on West Fourteenth Street – let alone the rented room on Stanton Street that housed his belongings and a simple iron bed.

The townhouse was elegant. Understated. Beautiful and well-designed – as the brownstone of a lauded architect would be.

And, as he would quickly discover – a very lived-in and much beloved home.

The door was opened by an Irish chambermaid, who quietly escorted him to the parlor.

Henry Beauchamp’s home was quite a few blocks south and avenues over from the mansions he designed for New York’s rich and famous – but seeing his work up close and personal made Jamie realize just why he was in such high demand.

The parlor where he waited was cozy without feeling small. Decorated with a thick Persian carpet over a mahogany inlaid floor, shelves and tabletops covered tastefully with art and decorative objects from all over the world. Early evening sunlight streamed through the windows, overlooking the street and framed by window boxes of forget-me-nots.

Footsteps in the hallway – Jamie rose. There was Claire…leading a small boy by the hand.

It was immediately apparent that the boy was a carbon copy of her – her whisky eyes, her riotous brown curls.

Jamie crouched down to the boy’s level, smiling. “Hello.”

“Hi,” the boy shyly responded.

“Can you introduce yourself?” Claire knelt at the boy’s side, encouraging him gently.

The boy straightened his well-made but grubby shirt. “I’m Henry. Who are you?”

“I’m Jamie.” Jamie reached out one hand, and to his surprise the boy shook it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Henry.”

“Do you like roast chicken?”

Jamie’s smile widened. “Yes, I do like roast chicken very much. Do you?”

The boy nodded. “I’d have it every day, if Nanny Fitz would let me.”

“Now.” Claire straightened the boy’s lapels. “Mama is going to sit with Jamie here in the parlor for a while. Can you get back upstairs to the nursery? I promise I’ll be with you for your roast chicken supper tonight.”

He nodded, then grinned brightly, smacking her cheek with an exaggerated kiss.

It was the first time Jamie heard Claire laugh.

Henry made a quick polite bow toward Jamie, then scampered up the winding staircase at the end of the hall, disappearing as the marble stairs twisted away onto the next landing.

Claire stood and extended a hand, helping Jamie to his feet. She led him to the parlor and softly sank into a plush couch; he sat in the armchair at her right.

Silence stretched. He waited for her to speak.

“He’s four – he’ll be five in August. He’s spirited, and inquisitive – Papa says I was the same, at his age. He encouraged that in me, and I want to do the same for my son.”

He listened.

“Yes, he’s mine. And no, he doesn’t have a father – not even on his birth certificate.”

She paused.

“The other day, in the courtyard at the hospital, you said you wanted to know me. Now you know what many people don’t know.”

She gave him a long look. “That’s valuable information, for someone in the press.”

“You know I’d never betray your confidence, Claire.” He held her gaze. “But why tell me? You could have easily chosen to not do so.”

“You’re right. I decided to trust you instead. Time will tell who’s the fool here.”

“Excuse me?”

The maid re-appeared at the door, carrying a tray laden with a silver tea service.

“Thank you Lizzie.” Claire gestured to the table in front of them. “You can set it down here.”

The maid did so, then quickly retreated from the room. Claire scooted to the front of the couch.

“How do you like your tea, Jamie?”

“Black, I suppose. I’m not much of a tea drinker.”

Carefully she poured the steaming tea into a solid china cup.

“And how do you like _your_ tea, Claire?”

She set his cup on a rattan coaster on the coffee table, then poured her own cup.

“With a bit of cream. No sugar – all the latest medical research says that added sugar is not the best of things for one’s health.”

Jamie wrapped his hands around the mug and sipped his tea. “Where on earth do you find the time to read medical research, between traveling to the hospital and spending time with your family?”

She sipped her own tea. “I manage. I always figure it out.”

He met her eyes. “I don’t doubt that one bit about you, Claire.”

For a while they talked about this and that. The article he had been researching about sanitariums. His ideas for a series in the _World_ about Slocum survivors. Her experiences with a particularly trying patient that day.

And then –

“Why haven’t you asked me more about Henry?”

He pursed his lips. “Because it’s none of my business. Because it’s your story to tell.”

“He does have a father, of course. But I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

Jamie swallowed. “Is he Randall’s son?”

Her eyes closed. “He’s _my_ son. But yes, Randall fathered him.”

Jamie paused, swirling the dregs in his teacup.

“He forced himself on me. It was in the cab, on the way back from the opera. Bizet’s _Carmen_. He had had far too much to drink at dinner, and then at the intermission, and then after the performance.” Her fingers drummed on the rim of her teacup. “It was very quick. But as my professors taught me in medical school, once is all it takes.”

She set down her teacup. “I broke it off the next day. He doesn’t even know. Nobody in his family knows.”

Jamie could find exactly nothing to say.

“Thank God my parents have supported every decision I’ve made along the way. They know it’s not my fault – do you know how many other parents would think otherwise? Send their daughters to Europe for six months, to _recover_? No. My parents hired tutors to come to me when I was showing too much to go to class. Nanny Fitz – she was my nanny growing up – was thrilled to step in. None of my professors knew – and certainly none of my classmates. Fortunately he was born in the summertime, during vacation.”

“What do you tell everyone?”

She shrugged. “We say that he was the son of a second cousin from upstate, and orphaned in a typhus epidemic. It happens often enough – you know that from being in the news business. Nobody questions it. They praise us, even, for taking on such a charity case.”

A pause.

“But it does grate on me – to not be able to acknowledge him as my own, out in the world. I take him out, of course – when he was a baby I pushed his pram, and now that he’s older we go on walks together. Even visit Madison Square Park.”

It was too much. She had to know that she had his support. So slowly, tentatively he reached his hand to lie atop hers.

“You don’t have to bear such a heavy burden alone, Claire.”

She looked at him. Really looked at him.

“I’m not alone – I’ve got Mama and Papa and Nanny Fitz.”

“That’s not what I mean. And you know it.”

“I know it’s not, Jamie. But at the end of the day – it’s not just me I have to worry about. You can’t blame me for being cautious. How do I know you won’t hurt me like he did?”

Jamie was taken aback.

“What makes you think I would?”

“I don’t exactly have the best track record, do I? Plus, I’ve got Papa’s money, and this house, hanging like a porkchop around my neck. And I’m pretty enough to look at.”

“You are.”

She snorted. “Like I said – plenty of reasons for unsavory characters to come knocking.”

“But that’s not your fault, is it? And surely you don’t think I’m unsavory.”

She didn’t answer.

Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock chimed.

“You want much more than an article, don’t you, Jamie?”

“Like I said, Claire – I want to _know_ you. Whatever you care to show me.”

“But why?”

“I will be honest with you, Claire – for it’s what you deserve. Why? Because I find myself wanting very much to be a part of your life. “

Her eyes widened.

Now he took her hands between both of his. Pressing them tightly.

“Claire, I’ll have you in whatever way I can. Whatever way you will have me.”

She swallowed. “But _why_ , Jamie? I still don’t understand why.”

Now he smiled. “Don’t tell me that maybe out of something terrible, something beautiful can happen. That two people who are in so many ways alone, can find each other.”

Her eyes filled with tears. He longed to thumb them away – but held his distance. Respectful. Trying his best to puzzle out this strange, singular woman.

“Miss Claire?”

She whirled to face Lizzie in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“Dinner is served.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/183584278960/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 5: The Dinner**

**July 6, 1904**

They started without Claire, who kept her promise of being with her son as he enjoyed his own dinner in the kitchen.

The meal was lovely – roast beef, potatoes, green beans. Red wine. The china was old, yet well-maintained. The dining room was immaculate, with a beautiful view of East Twenty-Second Street through the window.

Henry and Julia Beauchamp kept up a quiet but lively conversation, mostly between them but frequently drawing in Jamie as well.

Julia smiled throughout their dinner, often touching Henry’s elbow with clear affection.

“You’re the first man Claire has ever brought to our home,” she remarked, eyes fixed firmly on Jamie’s.

“I’m honored, Mrs. Beauchamp. And I mean that – I know it’s a true privilege to be invited into Claire’s life.”

Henry coughed. “I understand that you’re a reporter, Mr. Fraser.”

“Jamie, please. And yes I am, for the World. Been there about seven years now – worked my way up from the mail room. Sometimes I have personal assignments from Mr. Pulitzer himself.”

“That’s exciting!”

“Yes – that’s how I met Claire. But I’m sure you already know that.”

“We do. But tell us in your own words, if you will.”

How to summarize something as awful and indescribable as what he had seen, and smelled, and felt with his own hands on that day?

“To be honest, Mr. Beauchamp –”

“Henry,” he smiled kindly.

“Henry. To be honest, it’s not something I would ever care to describe again. I wrote about it for the paper. I know you must have read the coverage – so many people have.”

“Yes. And your coverage was quite comprehensive – it sought to report on many different points of view. As do most of your articles – shining light on what many others would prefer remains in darkness. That’s very brave.”

Jamie nodded a silent thanks – but pressed on.

“And amid all the terrible things I saw, the day of the Slocum disaster – I saw so many good things, too. People helping each other. Heroes ministering to the sick, who literally washed up on their doorstep. And now, the outpouring of charity and kindness for the people left behind.”

Henry sighed, thinking.

The moment stretched.

“Claire told you about young Henry?”

Jamie looked up from his roast beef. “She did.”

Julia exchanged a meaningful glance with her husband. “You’re only the sixth person to know. Save Claire’s doctor, and us, and my attorney, and Nanny Fitz.”

“Why did she tell you?” Henry asked.

“I don’t know, but I honor the trust she has given me. Above all, I want to know her, Mr. Beauchamp. Mrs. Beauchamp.”

“Please, it’s Henry and Julia –”

“With respect – not right now – not when we’re discussing something so important. As I said, I want to know her. To understand her. Get to know how she came to be. How she was shaped.”

Julia lay down her fork. “But why, Jamie?”

“She intrigues me, Mrs. Beauchamp. It’s my nature to investigate – to understand how and why someone or something came to be. And the more I learn about Claire, the more I want to learn.”

He swallowed. “I assure you, I will respect her. I won’t dishonor her in any way. I know the gift of trust she has given me. And I won’t betray that.”

A knock on the doorframe of the dining room. Jamie turned – and there was Claire. Where she had clearly been standing for some time. She nodded at her father, perfectly in his line of sight.

Jamie flushed. She took her place across the table, to her father’s right.

Smiling at him.

“Papa – can you please pass the green beans?”

–

Afterward, she walked him to the front door, and waited with him outside until he hailed a cab.

Before stepping inside, he turned to her, taking her hands in his own.

“Thank you for opening your home to me tonight. Give Henry a hug for me.”

She smiled. “I will.”

He squeezed her hands. “May I call on you again, Claire?”

Her smile widened. “Of course.”

Reverently he raised her right hand – cut and calloused from her work – and kissed it. Eyes intent on hers. Nodded a farewell. And stepped into the cab, heart and mind racing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/183744814640/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 6: The Unsung**

**July 30, 1904**

  


_Editorial published in The New York Evening World. Saturday, July 30, 1904._

July in Manhattan surely rivaled any city in tropics for oppressive heat and humidity – the overpowering stenches emanating from gutters and piles of rotting garbage – and the absolute impossibility of ever being comfortable.

Jamie’s six-part series – the Unsung – received great fanfare during its publication in the World. With Claire’s help, he had interviewed the doctors, nurses, and orderlies in the hospital on North Brother Island that had so generously taken care of so many victims of the Slocum disaster. He had consciously decided to not feature Claire – choosing instead to shine a light on the people who had been on the front lines of such a terrible tragedy that itself had already slipped from the front pages.

Jamie’s articles – and Mr. Pulitzer’s persistence – were credited with the tens of thousands of dollars that continued to pour in to the relief fund set up by the World on the day of the disaster. The fund that had already helped so many shattered families try to piece their lives back together.

For the stories of these victims deserved to be told – especially in light of what had unfolded in the weeks following the disaster.

A coroner’s inquest had been launched just days after the tragedy. Jamie had reported every detail to the World’s readers – and the jubilation when, not two weeks after the disaster, the inquest jury had found the captain, officers, and directors of the riverboat company guilty of manslaughter in the form of criminal negligence for not having fulfilled their collective duty to see that the ship had the proper safety equipment.

The public’s attention now turned to the debate over what would come next – and whether criminal charges would ever be filed.

But save for a few dedicated voices such as Jamie’s, the public’s attention had already slipped from the story – and it was only now that the true tragedy occurred.

Claire was the first to raise the alarm, one evening when she met him at the World’s offices on Park Row. And as they slowly strolled past City Hall and down Chambers Street, en route to dinner at a quiet restaurant run by one of Jamie’s contacts, all they could do was sigh at the speed at which events had unfolded.

For the once-thriving neighborhood of Kleindeutschland was now a shadow of its former self, with so many people – and families – obliterated by the disaster. German-owned shops and restaurants had abruptly closed; entire tenements were empty; already, Yiddish and Italian were heard in streets where just three months before, German was the only language spoken for dozens of blocks in any direction.

Reporting these changes in the neighborhood’s social fabric didn’t seize the public’s imagination as much as the terrible conflagration had – but Jamie recognized his duty to continue telling such important stories. Here too Claire helped him, for she and several of the nurses under her supervision kept in contact with survivors after they moved back home.

So Jamie accompanied Claire as she made house calls in Kleindeutschland; heard harrowing stories of survival and loss; saw for himself the cramped but comfortable conditions in which the families lived – sometimes six or seven or eight to a single room. Watched their gratitude at Claire’s kindness, how intently they listened to and respected her advice, how faithfully they followed her diagnoses and recommendations.

These stories – the unsung heroes of the hospital, and the unsung survivors of the Slocum, and the contrast between the price paid by the passengers and their community and how the ship’s officers had not seemingly paid a price of their own – were all from the heart. And these stories continued to touch a nerve among the World’s readership – for sales increased by nearly half on days when a new article in the series was published.

Mr. Pulitzer paid attention. He authored frequent editorials in the World, driven by a mission to use his platform keep the Slocum at the forefront of the public’s mind.

“The cry for vengeance is not heard in this matter.” Jamie read aloud from a still-drying copy of the newspaper’s evening edition, sitting on a bench in City Hall Park on a particularly warm Saturday afternoon. “The demand for exact punishment of the men behind the horror is urged not less earnestly to-day than on the day the Slocum burned, and the importance is emphasized of establishing precedents as to responsibility that will not be readily forgotten in later steamboat management.”

“Has he always had such a flair for the dramatic?” Claire munched on a still-warm pretzel. “And does he do it only because it’s good for business?”

Jamie turned to face her, brows raised. “He smells a scandal, yes. Tragedies sell papers, yes. But you can’t argue that the man is doing God’s work, Claire – shining a light. Catching the cockroaches before they scatter back into the dark corners.”

She shrugged and set down her pretzel, suddenly looking away. “And you, James Fraser? After you’ve shone that light, with my help – will you scatter, too?”

He threw the paper to the ground and knelt before her, taking her hands in his. Heedless of the stares from newsboys and the peanut vendor and couples on other benches all around them.

“Please look at me.”

It took a moment, but she did. Lips pressed together tightly.

“I spend time with you because of who you are. Your perspective on the world. Your beautiful heart, and its capacity for love and compassion.” Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. “I’m not going anywhere. Not today, not next month, not next year.”

She tilted her chin. “Even when all this is done?”

He squeezed her hands. “ _This_ will never be done. Unless and until you want it to be.”

She looked at him for a very long time. Then nodded. Squeezed his hands. Stood – helped him to his feet.

She didn’t let go as they turned to walk toward Chatham Square, where they would catch the Third Avenue El to make it back to the townhouse in time for dinner with Henry.

They waited on the corner for a streetcar to pass. “I’m going to hold you to that, James Fraser.”

He squeezed her hand. “You have my word, Dr. Claire Beauchamp.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/183912513265/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 7: The Invitation**

**August 25, 1904**

_Article published in the New-York Daily Tribune on Sunday, August 28, 1904. Captain Van Schaick was at the helm when the Slocum burned. Bellevue is world-renowned for its mental illness ward. This small story, of a man literally gone mad with grief, humanizes this tragedy. And is emblematic of just how deeply this disaster scarred the city._

_–_

In early August, Mr. Pulitzer gave Jamie a hearty raise.

Jamie thanked him by donating it to the World’s Slocum widows and orphans fund.

In turn, the German community thanked him – for the fair, honest depiction of their community he had shared with the world, and for his own personal generosity – by declaring they would host a dinner in his honor, at one of the beer gardens on the Bowery.

This invitation was the prime topic of conversation the next time he dined with Claire, the Beauchamps, and Henry – who brimmed with joy at being invited to sit with the grown-ups. True to his word, Jamie had breathed not a word of Henry’s existence to anyone. He had continued to call on Claire – and she had surprised him with a few unannounced appearances at his office – all the while remaining respectful of her boundaries.

He’d invited her to dinner at his cramped rooms on Stanton Street; she insisted on buying groceries from several Italian pushcart vendors along the way, and together they cooked a simple yet delicious meal. Swapping stories about growing up in the city – the crowded public school he had attended in Chelsea, punctuated by occasional ferry trips across the Hudson to visit his mother’s brothers in Newark; playing hide-and-seek with her funny Uncle Lamb in the basement of her grandfather’s department store, and sneaking into dusty libraries to find a respite from yet another boring social occasion.

Learning each other.

Jamie had continued to impress all three adult Beauchamps with the way he partnered with Claire to shine a light on stories that the public may otherwise ignore or overlook – lending her work the credence it deserved.

“I’ve been to a few dinners at these beer gardens,” the elder Henry shared, tucking in to the cool asparagus salad that Claire had helped the cook, Mrs. Crook, prepare. “They’re outside – or if they’re inside, the ceiling is made of glass panes that can be opened to let in the air. Entire families will come, squashed side-by-side onto picnic tables.”

“Is it safe to presume that plenty of beer is served?” Julia smiled from behind her napkin.

“It is, dear wife,” Henry replied. “Along with a good deal of other food – sausages, sauerkraut, potatoes. All very good, if a bit monochromatic in appearance.”

“What’s mono-chromatic?” Young Henry speared an asparagus on his fork and wobbled it a bit over his plate.

“‘Mono’ means ‘one,’ lovie, and ‘chromatic’ means ‘color.’ Anyway, Papa, It’s remarkable how the Germans do everything together – how they bring entire families to an event.” Claire gently pushed her son’s elbows off the table. “That’s why so many families were on the Slocum to begin with – they don’t like separating the men from the women, the women from the children.”

“In that respect, they’re not so different from many of the other immigrant groups in New York,” Jamie reflected. “The Jews, the Italians, the Syrians, even the Chinese – everything becomes a family affair. They live together, work together – and have fun together. It only seems that the Americans – or to be specific, the Knickerbockers – don’t have this same custom.”

“That’s because they can choose to pack away the children with the staff – and because the men are too idiotic to want to spend time with their wives,” Henry huffed. “Not for me to share now – with the little pitchers at the table. But Julia knows full well, the number of times I’ve had to turn down certain…invitations.”

Claire raised an eyebrow at her father, then turned to look at her son – blissfully unaware as he munched on a cold chicken leg.

“Still.” Jamie sipped his whisky. “I’m honored to be invited. Truly.”

“You’ve done so much good, Jamie. Honorable good.” Henry raised his own glass of whisky in a toast. “And I’m pleased it’s being recognized.”

“By the people whose opinion matter most,” Claire added, clinking her own glass of whisky against Jamie’s.

He looked into her eyes. Knew that she wasn’t just referring to the Kleindeutschlanders.

–

Later, after the dessert plates were cleared, Jamie refused the elder Henry’s offer of a nightcap and welcomed the younger Henry’s enthusiastic good-night hug, before retreating alone to the parlor that overlooked East Twenty-Second Street. As was their custom after dinner, Jamie waited as Claire put her son to bed – sometimes reading from one of the storybooks Jamie had so thoughtfully given Henry for his fifth birthday – before they shared a quiet hour or two in the parlor. Alone. Getting to know one another.

Always on Claire’s terms.

Sometimes they talked about her work – a challenging patient she had treated; a new doctor who had doubted her abilities; a recent scientific breakthrough she had learned about in one of the journals she subscribed to.

Sometimes they talked about his work – how he had had to fight his editors to use true and honest language and avoid sensationalism in his Unsung series; salacious stories that the newspaper had trumpeted – or ignored – based on Mr. Pulitzer’s whims and relationships; the faces and stories of everyday New Yorkers he had met in the course of his travels around the city.

Sometimes they talked about their families – her, of happy childhood memories growing up in this house, or traveling with her beloved Uncle Lamb as he lectured about anthropology in various colleges across the Northeast; him, of the foods his mother had cooked in their tenement on West Thirteenth Street, and the happy life his sister and brother-in-law led on the farm in Nova Scotia he had heard so much about but never visited himself.

Usually they sat side-by-side on the settee, facing each other, both nursing a glass of brandy. He never drank very much in her presence – knowing how gravely she had suffered at the hands of a drunk man. And he never touched her – never even took her hand – without her touching him first.

Silently signaling how much he respected her.

Aching for more with her – this woman whose strength inspired him, whose grace astounded him, whose beauty haunted his days and his dreams.

How deeply he wanted everything with her – to have her at his side, as his wife and partner and confidante. To provide for Henry – to be a father to him, to give him his name, to guide him as he grew. To give Henry sisters and brothers to play with.

The settee shifted beside him – and she was there. Smiling. So beautiful and radiant.

She held out her hands – and immediately he took them within his own. Caressing. Eyes intent on hers.

“Is he asleep?”

She nodded. “He so loves the book of Mother Goose rhymes you bought him. He can read them on his own now. So he insisted on reading to _me_ tonight.”

He returned her smile. “He’s a smart boy.”

“He is.” She glanced down at their hands. How his fingers so perfectly twined with hers, thumbs gently stroking the pulses and tendons on the inside of her wrists.

“Will you come with me to the dinner, Claire?”

Her eyes snapped up to meet his. “The one at the beer garden?”

He nodded. “I would like nothing more than for you to be at my side. I wouldn’t be there – wouldn’t have been able to meet such wonderful people, or to have had such an impact – had it not been for you.” He swallowed. “But for you to do that, would mean that we – we would be seen together in public. As a couple.”

She didn’t speak, silently squeezing his hands.

“I don’t want you to think that I’m – I’m ashamed of you in any way, or that I don’t want to be seen with you. It would make me so proud, to have you there – to introduce you as the most important woman in my life. But Claire – Claire, I don’t know if you want that.”

“Of course I want that,” she replied, incredulous.

“But are you ready for that? To be in the papers again, potentially? I know you didn’t care for it very much the last time it happened – and now that my name is becoming more well-known…it may be a topic of interest to some people.”

She pursed her lips. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes creased in the lamplight. “I understand that – and I accept it. I can’t hide from it forever, Jamie. I’m ready for it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

She shifted closer to him. “Because you came to me through what I can do. Not because of my family. Or my looks. Or our money, our house. The influence we have. You came to me because of something terrible, which allowed me to express how skilled I am. Because of what I can do. Because of what I have worked so hard to demonstrate.”

She paused, considering her words very carefully.

“Jamie – other people see those things first. You don’t. You see me for who _I_ want to be – for how _I_ want to be seen. Purely because of me. Do you know you’re the only person – except for my son, perhaps – who has ever done that for me?”

Now the words flooded in a torrent. “You make me stronger – more confident. You don’t owe me anything, and yet you support me anyway. So I know that your support – your faith in me – is genuine. And you demonstrate that faith by allowing me to help you find people whose stories need to be told – and then by telling them honestly. Earning their trust and respect. _My_ trust and respect.”

She dropped his left hand. Reached to cradle his cheek for the first time. Overcome, he brought her left hand to his thrumming heart – and closed his eyes, nuzzling her palm.

“You one said that you wanted to _know_ me. Do you remember?”

He nodded.

She swallowed. “I think I’ve come to know you well, Jamie Fraser. Would you say the same about me?”

“Yes,” he breathed.

“So of course I’ll accompany you. To the beer garden, and anywhere else you go.”

His eyes opened, and joyfully he kissed her palm.

“Always?” he whispered, so hopeful.

“Always,” she promised, bringing their joined hands to her own heart so that he could feel it racing.

“I – I…” he stammered. “I would very much like to kiss you, Claire. May I?”

Forever she remembered that moment, when the world seemed to stand still, and she lost all sense of her surroundings – save for Jamie’s eager face, and his burning eyes, and his soft, soft touch on her wrist.

“Yes,” she breathed. And the world exploded with color.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/184083070361/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 8: The Bowery**

**September 8, 1904**

_The Atlantic Garden, a German beer hall established in 1858, located at what is now 50 Bowery, in lower Manhattan._

_View of the Bowery, circa 1905. Note the Third Avenue Elevated train, also known as the “El”, which ran right up the street; it was constructed between 1875 and 1878, and demolished in 1955._

Dinner was raucous and successful, held in a gigantic second-floor beer garden with a glassed-in roof and dozens of tables.

The sausages and sauerkraut were good – Jamie was sure the beer was too, though he had barely made it through a full stein. Not only because he was talking so much – but also because he was very mindful of Claire, sitting beside him, sipping from her own stein, pressing her leg against his under the table.

She was so lovely tonight. Neither of them wore anything fine, but she had clearly chosen one of her nicer dresses. She had done up her hair differently, too. And she positively glowed, watching the roving accordion player and the packs of children chasing each other between the tables. Smiling at the dozens of people who shyly came up to them both, thanking them for their generosity – and for Jamie’s work not just reporting on the story, but on its aftermath in their community.

Quite a few survivors of the tragedy – some limping, others proudly bearing the scars of burns they had received in the effort of saving themselves or others – also came up to the table. Wanting to hear Jamie’s opinion on whether anyone who had been convicted of negligence in the coroner’s inquest in June would ever see the inside of a courtroom (Jamie said yes, because he was doing his darndest to make sure that the stories of Slocum survivors never strayed too far from the public’s imagination; a Kleindeutchland community leader sitting at the head of the table did not share his optimism, because the captain was already an old man and nobody ever liked seeing an old man on trial, regardless of his crimes).

Many of them thanked Claire as well – for just as Jamie’s profile had risen by giving them and their stories a voice, Claire had played a vital role in overseeing their treatment and ensuring they received the best possible care for as long as they stayed in the hospital, in addition to the home visits she periodically made when coming on rounds with Jamie. They thanked her for saving their lives – or the lives of their children, cousins, uncles, parents – and pressed embroidered handkerchiefs, and jars of homemade pickles, and sachets of dried herbs and flowers into her grateful hands.

Her medical expertise also came in handy when an older gentleman – who had clearly imbibed a bit too much beer – began choking on a mouthful of sausage. She pushed aside his concerned wife and children to grip him in a bear hug from behind, squeezing out the blockage by pressing hard on his diaphragm.

That earned her a raucous round of applause – and another stein of beer – and a hearty, salty, spicy kiss from Jamie.

Afterwards – full of energy and exuberance and not wanting to go home just yet – they walked up the Bowery, under the thunder of the elevated railway, and made a sharp left on Bayard Street (careful of the pushcarts full of oranges; Claire gave a nickel to a grubby-faced child who thanked her in Italian) before making a quick right onto Elizabeth Street for the Thalia Theater, where they caught an even more raucous Yiddish vaudeville show. It didn’t matter that they didn’t understand a word – the over-exaggerated voices and gesticulations of the actors were easy enough to follow.

Then they retraced their steps and took the Bowery elevated train to the stop closest to Claire’s home on East Twenty-Second Street. They shared a paper bag of peanut brittle bought from a Chinese man outside the theater, holding hands and kissing like teenagers.

In retrospect, Jamie realized that he would have noticed the man sitting across from him – after all, derby hats were uncommon in this part of the city. But his mind – eyes – heart – were too full of Claire, and how her now-free curls framed her face so beautifully, and the sticky, delicious crumbs at the corners of her mouth.

He escorted her down the stairs of the elevated train, and they walked slowly to her building. She held tightly onto his arm with both of her hands – not because she needed to, but because she wanted to. They reflected on their amazing evening – made plans to see each other the following day.

She rang the doorbell. He kissed her long and hard while she giggled, afraid her father would find them on the stoop. Fortunately it was Lizzie who answered, and with a final peck on the cheek, Jamie bid his farewells.

As he rounded the corner at the end of her street, the man with the derby threw his half-burned cigarette to the ground, heading in the opposite direction.

The letter came four days later, in the afternoon mail.

“Fraser!” Rupert MacKenzie, just a few years off the boat from Scotland and the World newsroom’s jack-of-all-trades, bellowed from his central desk.

Jamie rolled his shoulders and stood, grateful for a short break from his typewriter. He didn’t recognize the sender’s address. Inside was a single sheet of paper, with the letterhead of a fancy law firm. The typewritten letter was signed – with a flourish – by a Mr. J. Marley, Esq., claiming he provided legal representation for one Denys “Railroad” Randall and his company Wentworth Industries, now led by eldest son Edward.

Jamie knew full well that “Railroad” Randall had investments in the Knickerbocker Steamship Company – which had owned the Slocum – though that fact hadn’t yet made it into the press. And there was nothing untoward about the letter itself or its contents; it lamented the state of American journalism for continuing to cover such a tabloid matter, and threatened vague, unspecified action if the World chose to continue reporting on the aftermath of the disaster, or published more opinion pieces criticizing the district attorney for failing to criminally prosecute the Slocum’s captain and officers.

All of this was par for the course. Jamie – and Mr. Pulitzer – had received such letters before. But this one made Jamie pay attention for two reasons.

One – Railroad Randall was the grandfather of Claire’s son, even though he clearly had no idea that the boy even existed.

And two – the very last line in the letter chilled him to the bone.

_“It is known that you keep the company of one Dr. Claire Beauchamp, who has not only abetted your misguided endeavors to besmirch my client’s reputation using the bodies of dead children, but also besmirches your reputation due to her own licentious personal history, which is known quite intimately to my client’s family.”_

Jamie banged his fist on the table. Took the letter directly to Mr. Pulitzer, barging right into his office. He – and his boss – would not take this quietly.  

And together they formulated a plan.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/184270777355/truth-to-triumph-today)

## Truth to Triumph - today

No new Truth to Triumph this week - I’m out of town and need a bit of a breather for my writing.

But I thought I’d use this opportunity to share some photographs I’ve taken of what used to be Kleindeutschland, in what is now the East Village neighborhood of New York City. And the distressingly few memorials to the Slocum and its victims.

First up on our tour is the **Ottendorfer Library** \- just about the last clearly German building remaining in the neighborhood today.

According to the [New York Public Library’s website](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.nypl.org%2Fabout%2Flocations%2Fottendorfer&t=MjAyOTAzZjFkNTQ1NTU2NWZjYmUxMjIxOTNhOTM5Y2Q5NDEwNzNjNywwbms5SE9hRw%3D%3D&b=t%3AD4g0V6eDPQOnNH0JBcjUww&p=https%3A%2F%2Fgotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F184270777355%2Ftruth-to-triumph-today&m=0):

_The Ottendorfer Branch of the New York Public Library opened in 1884 as New York City’s first free public library._

_Designed by German-born architect William Schickel, this landmark building combines Queen Anne and neo-Italian Renaissance styles with an exterior ornamented by innovative terracotta putti. The branch was a gift of Oswald Ottendorfer, owner of the New-Yorker Staats-Zeitung newspaper. At the time, the neighborhood was called Kleindeutschland (“Little Germany”) and had a population of over 150,000 people of German descent. Ottendorfer wished to provide this community with books to cultivate their minds and assist assimilation into American culture. Half of the 8,000 original books were in German with the other half in English. In this tradition, the branch continues to reflect its community and remains a vital educational and cultural resource for the East Village._

—

Just a few blocks away on East 6th Street is the **Community Synagogue Max D. Raiskin** , an Orthodox Jewish congregation. The building was constructed in 1847, and for many years was the **St. Mark’s Evangelical Lutheran Church**. This was the church that charted the Slocum on that fateful day in 1904.

Most of the people who died in the Slocum disaster were members of the St. Mark’s congregation. A few years after the disaster, the congregation moved up north to the Yorkville neighborhood on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, where many Germans had moved following the disaster. St. Mark’s merged with an existing Lutheran congregation in Yorkville, and still exists today. The Jewish congregation purchased the building soon after that.

There is a small memorial plaque on the fence in front of the synagogue, commemorating the Slocum disaster. It was only installed on the centenary of the disaster in 2004; it is one of only two plaques in this neighborhood - in all of Manhattan - commemorating what happened.

—

Finally, a few blocks away in Tompkins Square Park, the only Slocum memorial in Manhattan can be found.

Sadly it’s weathered and faded with time - but it’s no less haunting today than in 1906, when the memorial fountain was unveiled.

It’s stunning in its simplicity. Two children in profile - dressed in turn-of-the-century clothing - beside a beautiful spray of leaves or flowers.

“They were Earth’s purest children - young and fair,” the inscription reads.

On the side of the fountain is carved the memorial itself - 

And the only explanation for curious passersby is provided by a sign installed by the NYC Parks Department:

The memorial is beautiful - but small. Typically locked behind this iron gate - not accessible to the public, except in good weather.

Essentially forgotten.

As is the Slocum disaster, for the most part.

What I shared with you today is all that’s left in the neighborhood where these people once lived, worked, played, and prayed.

Thank you for helping me honor and remember these men, women, and children who died so needlessly. Thank you for helping me give them a voice.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/184433747808/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 9: The Plan**

**September 12, 1904**

_Political cartoon published in the_ New York Journal _, titled “Death And Greed Partners.” To the left is the steamship owner; to the right is the Grim Reaper; between them is a dead child; above them is the Slocum, on fire. The caption reads: “_ _The life of this child and many hundreds of others were sacrificed to Greed in the General Slocum disaster. Death and Greed count the profits. When will a day of reckoning come for the criminals that are responsible for the deaths?”_

_–_

“Let me get this straight. You’ll be publishing hit pieces on the Randalls?”

Jamie swirled his glass of whisky. “Not them personally – all of the companies that own and operate those boats. Wentworth Industries own a fifty percent share in the Knickerbocker Steamship Company, which owned the Slocum – it was the younger Randall’s idea to diversify the family business.”

Henry Beauchamp exchanged worried glances with his wife. “And let me guess – they’re not exactly honest businessmen.”

Jamie sadly shook his head. “Did you know that although the Slocum was less than fifteen years old, it had experienced seven accidents that we’re aware of? That each time the boat was damaged, it was shoddily repaired? And that the entire time, the lifeboats and live preservers were never fixed or replaced?”

“That would be why the survivors told me that the life vests crumbled to dust when they tried to put them on.” Claire sighed, squeezing Jamie’s hand on her lap.

“Yes. And the Slocum wasn’t the only boat with that kind of track record. There are at least ten other boats operating in the city that could be putting people in similar danger. Just five weeks before the fire, an inspector gave the ship a clean bill of health.”

“And you’ll be blaming the Randalls for the disaster?”

Jamie pursed his lips. “I can’t blame them for that, Julia – but I _can_ blame them for failing to ensure that the boat was in good working order. Them and their partner in the company. And imply that it’s because of their influence that the captain and crew haven’t yet seen the inside of a criminal courtroom.”

Lizzie breezed into the parlor to lay a plate of ginger cookies on the table. Henry thanked her with a nod, and quickly she returned to the kitchen.

“I am telling you all of this because I want you to know before it goes to press. Things could get hairy for me. The paper’s got my back, but it could be dangerous for a while.”

“Then why do it, Jamie?” Claire chewed on a cookie, heart torn. “Why subject yourself to this?”

He dropped Claire’s hand and sat up a bit straighter on the settee. Drew the folded letter from his pocket. Handed it to Claire.

Thirty seconds letter, Claire dropped her teacup. It landed harmlessly on the carpet, but the damage was done.

“The fucking BASTARD,” she seethed. “How dare he? And how does he even know?”

“We must have been followed.” Gently Jamie took the letter and handed it across the coffee table to Henry, before moving closer to Claire and taking both of her hands.

“We’ll never be rid of that monster,” Henry sighed.

“He can’t find out about Henry.” Claire raised her eyes to meet Jamie. “He can’t. Ever.”

“He won’t. I promise you. Do you think I’d _ever_ do anything that would put you, or him, in harm’s way?”

Julia watched the young man try to reassure her daughter. How careful and gentle he was with her – stroking her cheek, holding her hands. Bringing her into his circle of trust. As Claire had clearly done with him.

“No,” Claire whispered. “Of course not.”

Jamie nodded. “I am telling you now that if you don’t want me to do this, I won’t do it. If you think the risk is too great – to me, to you, to Henry – then I’ll respect what you want.”

Henry’s brow furrowed. “You mean – you won’t publish the articles after all?”

“Correct. Not the one about the Slocum, at least – but there are plenty of other articles to write about all the other steamship companies and their crooked owners. I know what the Randalls are capable of – and the impact it could have on your firm, Henry.”

Henry waved his hand. “We’ll manage. But even if we didn’t want you to publish anything – wouldn’t Mr. Pulitzer have the final say?”

“I’ll convince him. The story was my idea. He’s listening to me on this one.” Jamie turned to Claire. “I can’t sit still when people threaten me – threaten you. Especially you. But I won’t do anything if you don’t want me to, Claire.”

Claire sat up a bit straighter. Grasped Jamie’s hands tighter.

“Do it.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/184596761391/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 10: The First Step**

**September 24, 1904**  

_The newsroom of the New York World, circa 1900_.

The articles had been rolled out carefully. The first focused on the owners of steamships that still sailed around the harbor and around Manhattan. The second turned its attention on police and City Hall corruption to suppress press reports of boat fires and other incidents that would make the public leery of taking such a mode of transportation – especially with the new Sub-Way under construction in parts of Brooklyn and lower Manhattan.

The reception was electric. The telephone in the World’s newsroom rang off the hook, as a mix of tips and outrage from the public poured in. Mr. Pulitzer had already been called to City Hall and a meeting with Mayor George B. McClellan, Jr. – son of the famed Civil War general, who had coincidentally served alongside the Slocum’s namesake, General Henry Warner Slocum, in the Union Army. Mayor McClellan had received just as much heat from a public suddenly very insistent that his office do something to prevent another disaster from happening. Mr. Pulitzer was only too happy to report on the meeting in the following day’s paper, sending the mayor’s approval numbers through the roof.

But Mr. Pulitzer, and Jamie Fraser, and the Beauchamps all knew that the third article was the jewel in the crown.

The exposé on the Knickerbocker Steamship Company, and the gross negligence of its two owners – the Randall family via Wentworth Industries, and their close partners, the Fort William Company, owned by the father of Railroad Randall’s daughter-in-law Mary – wife to his playboy historian son, Jack.

The article was cleverly written. It avoided naming any person as personally responsible for individual wrongdoing. But the facts about the Slocum – and the owners’ chronic underinvestment in the basic maintenance of the boat – were absolutely damning.

The article re-published – this time with more detail – survivors’ accounts of what had happened when the inferno broke out on the Slocum. Brittle, weathered fire hoses. Life vests that had crumbled in desperate hands. Mothers, frantic to see their children safe, had strapped them into life vests before throwing them into the river – only to watch the vests fill with water and drag their children beneath the surface. Furthermore, the life boats were completely inaccessible – tied with thick knots that only an axe could cut. There were even rumors that the life vests – stuffed with cork – had actually been stuffed with heavier materials, including iron rods, to meet minimum weight requirements when the vests had been manufactured, fifteen years before the tragedy.

What grated on Jamie – and Mr. Pulitzer – and the entire World readership, who eagerly devoured the article, was that it was all entirely preventable. Had there been laws on the books to ensure that safety equipment was up to par, that the boat’s crew were trained in rudimentary emergency evacuation procedures, and that the life boats were accessible in time of emergency – well, it may not have prevented the fire from occurring, but it damn well could have prevented the immense and pointless loss of over a thousand lives.

Jamie hand-delivered the first printed copy of the newspaper to the elder Henry Beauchamp, waiting patiently across the street from the World’s offices on Park Row. It was almost midnight, and Henry read Jamie’s article as the two of them took the Bowery Elevated uptown to the Beauchamp family brownstone, where Claire and Julia were waiting.

For the entire journey, Henry just shook his head.

“None of this is news to me,” he remarked, “since you’ve shared as much with us over the past few months. But to read it all here – and on the front page…”

“I know. It will be explosive. Mr. Pulitzer suggested I lay low tomorrow. To let him and the boys deal with the reaction.”

Henry turned to him, brows furrowed with surprise. “On the biggest day of your career? Why on earth would you do that?”

Jamie held his gaze. “I’d like to be with Claire, up at the hospital where nobody can find me. Because I want to make sure that she’s all right.”

“You can’t insulate her from it.”

“I wasn’t trying to. I – I need to be around people who are doing good. Selfless good, for people who can’t help themselves.”

Henry picked up the newspaper, rolled it, and poked Jamie in the ribs. “And what do you think _this_ is, then?”

Jamie shrugged. “Some people will say I’m doing it for fame. Maybe you think I’m doing it for revenge.”

The train rolled into their stop at Twenty-Third Street, and together they clambered onto the platform and then down the stairs to the street.

“Revenge for what? For what that bastard Randall did to Claire? She didn’t even know you then.”

“It doesn’t matter to me. That man deserves to pay for what he did to her.”

Henry sighed as they turned onto East Twenty-Second Street. “Don’t you think for one minute that Claire is entirely selfless in her work. She wants to change things, too.”

“Of course she does. And she has – you know yourself how much the Kleindeutschlanders admire her.”

Ten steps up the stoop, and Henry fished for the keys in his pocket.

Jamie turned to face the deserted street, eerily quiet.

Just as Henry turned the key and opened the door, Jamie saw a flash of movement beneath the streetlamp on the corner.

A derby hat.

“Get into the house. Now,” he hissed, all but pushing Henry through the door.

“What on earth?” the older man exclaimed.

“Bolt the doors. Both of them. I saw the man who was watching us on the night of the party at the beer garden.”

Henry calmly bolted both deadbolts on the front door, and then the door in the vestibule as well.

“Jamie?”

Footsteps in the hallway – Julia. Jamie bent to quickly kiss her cheek.

“Julia. Is Claire down here?”

“Yes – I’m right here.” Now Claire appeared further down the hallway, in the doorway to the parlor. “Are you all right?”

“Jamie saw someone on the street,” Henry explained, taking his wife’s hand.

“The man in the derby hat,” Jamie added.

“Holy God,” Claire breathed. “Should I call the police?”

“No need – he’s likely gone by now. But I think we should all go upstairs for the night.”

Julia nodded in agreement. Claire stepped down the hallway, smiling tiredly, holding a lamp in one hand. Jamie bent to kiss her.

“Here.” Henry pressed the newspaper into Claire’s free hand. “It’s explosive.”

Julia began climbing the staircase, Henry at her side.

Jamie reached to take Claire’s lamp, then held out his free arm. Gratefully she took it, leading him upstairs.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/184757884719/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 11: The Night**

**September 25, 1904**

“Henry asked for you at dinner.”

It was past one A.M. now, and a light rain pattered against the window of Claire’s sitting room. She and Henry occupied the fifth floor – the top floor – of the Beauchamp family brownstone, with Henry and Julia in the master suite on the fourth floor, and what they called the “public rooms” on the first, second, and third floors.

Young Henry had his own bedroom, adjacent to Claire’s. Off Claire’s room was her sitting room, crammed with shelves full of books and pottery and objects brought home by her much-beloved Uncle Lamb, Julia’s archaeologist brother who always seemed to be off digging in the dirt of some faraway land. There was also a small bathroom, complete with running water, and then a spare room that now held a few dusty boxes of Claire’s college papers and Henry’s baby items.

Lizzie had made up a pallet for Jamie on the floor of the spare room. For he and the Beauchamps had agreed that on the nights before a new article in the _World_ ’s weekly series was published, he was to stay with them. His relationship with Claire was well known among the German community in Kleindeutschland, but nobody else outside of that tight-knit circle – save Mr. Pulitzer, whom he had grown to trust implicitly – knew about it. And he wanted to keep it that way. So should an angry member of one of the companies he had exposed – or a thug hired on their behalf – tried to find him in his rented room on Stanton Street, at least those efforts would be thwarted.

“Did he?”

“Yes,” she smiled. “He asked if you would be here for breakfast.”

Jamie returned her smile. Breakfast with Henry was something that they all – Claire included – cherished. Henry rarely got to see Jamie when he came for dinner, due to his earlier bedtime – so at breakfast, he hammered Jamie with questions and observations and all manner of exuberance, over oatmeal and milk and boiled eggs.

“Did you tell him that it’s the favorite part of my week?”

“He asked Lizzie to make sure the eggs were boiled soft, just the way you like them.”

He reached over to take her hand. “He’s so smart, to remember that. Observant, too.”

“He is his mother’s son,” Claire replied.

Jamie squeezed her hand. “And you don’t mind if I spend tomorrow with you at the hospital?”

“Of course I don’t. As long as you stay out of my way. I’m the doctor, after all – I’m the one in charge.”

“Never doubted it.”

A wide yawn interrupted her smile. “It’s so late.”

“It is.”

“What you’re doing, Jamie – it’s the right thing. You know it’s the right thing.”

“I know. They can’t take us to court – everything we’ve reported is factual. And somebody needs to pay for what happened.”

“I don’t disagree.” She sighed. “It completely decimated Kleindeutschland. It’s not right. All those people…the children…”

“Hush.” Now he gathered her to him, holding her close on the settee. She melted against him. He kissed her hair. Her fingers dug into his shirt collar.

“Jamie?”

“Hmm?”

“What would you think if…if you could have breakfast with Henry every morning?”

Jamie drew back to look into her eyes. Traced her cheek with his thumb.

“What do you mean?”

She swallowed, eyes strong and determined. “I want you to live here, with us. To be Henry’s father. To be my husband.”

Ten thousand emotions surged within him. “Claire…”

The worlds tumbled out of her. “I want you here with me, every day. To speak with you in the evenings after I perform a difficult surgery. To hear about the articles you’re writing, and the people you’re meeting. To ride the elevated trains with you, and go to a vaudeville show, and take Henry to the zoo.”

He blinked back tears. “Oh, Claire – sharing my life with you would be the greatest honor.”

Her eyes shone. “Yes?”

“Yes!”

“Yes!”

They embraced for what seemed like forever, endless possibilities unfurling before them.

And they would have remained on the settee, holding each other, until dawn – but then the clock on the mantle chimed two.

Jamie framed Claire’s tired, beautiful face between his hands, and kissed her long and slow and sweet.

“Go to bed. I’ll be right here.”

She kissed the tip of his nose. “I’m so happy. How can I possibly sleep?”

He kissed her chin. “Dream of me, and our family.”

Her smile was so serene. “I will.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/185083469830/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 12: The Respite**

**September 25, 1904**

_Riverside Hospital, North Brother Island, circa 1937. For decades, this was the place New Yorkers went to be quarantined - when you had a disease like measles or typhoid or leprosy, which was a social death sentence._

_Riverside Hospital was abandoned in the 1960s. I[t still exists - a haunting, overgrown ruin](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fabandonednyc.com%2F2013%2F10%2F09%2Fgetting-lost-on-north-brother-island%2F&t=ZjRjMDQ2OWM4OGVkZDA4N2NmODU1ZWUyMjMyMDZkYTczNDhkZDIyMixJSmkwZ1JmYQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AD4g0V6eDPQOnNH0JBcjUww&p=https%3A%2F%2Fgotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F185083469830%2Ftruth-to-triumph&m=0) \- for anyone brave enough to visit._

“And how exactly did you end up here, Herr Müller?”

The middle-aged German gentleman smiled at Jamie, squinting in the sunshine of the balmy autumn day, enjoying the fresh air of the hospital courtyard.

“The measle, Mr. Fraser. My wife and daughter had it first – my daughter had it when she was pregnant with my first grandchild. I took her here to the hospital so that Dr. Beauchamp could treat her.”

“Why did you come all this way? It’s not easy to get here from Kleindeutschland.”

Mr. Müller smiled sadly. “We don’t live there anymore – we couldn’t, after Tommy was killed on the boat. But my other son Paul – one of his friends moved to Yorkville. So we live there now too.”

Yorkville was a neighborhood on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, bordered roughly by Seventy-Ninth and Ninety-Sixth Streets. It was just about as far north as one could get from Kleindeutschland while still remaining on the island.

“But I’m sure there must be a hospital in Yorkville – why come here, to North Brother Island?”

“Because of Dr. Beauchamp. She healed so many of my friends and family – and was such a comfort for us, in our time of need. She cares for people like a mother would. So we knew that she would know what to do for Petronella.”

“And did she?”

Now Mr. Müller positively beamed. “Of course! Dr. Beauchamp took very good care of her. And Petronella named her daughter Clara, in her honor!”

Deeply moved by this man’s clear affection and respect for Claire, Jamie reached across the bench to squeeze Mr. Müller’s hand.

“That’s so wonderful,” he said sincerely.

“We are lucky to have her. She fights hard for the patients in her care. She must fight equally hard for the things and people she loves. Like you.”

Surprised, Jamie’s brow furrowed. “How – ”

“It’s written all over your face, Mr. Fraser. I was there at the celebration in the beer garden, a few weeks ago. You are good together. And don’t think I don’t know who you are – you are doing God’s work, with your articles.”

Jamie flushed – and not because of the sunshine.

“Those bastards must pay for what they did to us.” Mr. Müller’s voice was low, full of promise. “To our families. To our community. They see us as worthless trash, fit only to make their beer and sew their clothes. But we are much more than that. Ja?”

“Ja,” Jamie agreed. “Thank you, Herr Müller.”

“It is my pleasure. Come visit us in Yorkville – my wife makes the best sauerbraten. So much better than the _scheisse_ I am served here!”

Jamie shook Mr. Müller’s hand and stood, leaving him basking in the sunshine, his hospital uniform gently flapping in the breeze.

–

“It seems quiet here today.”

Claire chewed on her sandwich, thinking. “We generally don’t have a constant stream of patients coming through our doors – most of our beds are in the infectious disease ward. People come here to be quarantined. To stay away from society for a time.”

“Like me, I suppose.”

She cut her pickle in half. “Nobody would think to look for you here – you’re safe with the consumptives.”

He smiled. “So – what do you want to do for your birthday?”

Her brows narrowed. “Let me guess – Henry told you this morning.”

“Poor kid is beside himself that he hasn’t found the perfect gift yet.”

She offered him the remaining bites of sandwich – cold chicken with grainy mustard on hearty rye bread – and he pushed his half-eaten bowl of chicken noodle soup across the table.

“He’s so thoughtful. But he should also know that he doesn’t need to get me anything. Having him in my life is enough of a gift.”

“Not so fast – surely there must be something you want. We’ve only got just about three weeks.”

Slowly she glanced around them – taking note of the nurses and doctors quietly chatting at the neighboring tables.

“A wedding.”

Jamie blinked. “So soon? Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.” She slurped the soup. “It doesn’t need to be much – we can do it in the parlor at the house. Just us, and Mama and Papa, and Henry. Nanny Fitz, too.”

He swallowed the last bite of her sandwich. “May – may I adopt Henry? Give him my name?”

She reached across the table to take his hand. Not caring about anyone or anything that could see.

“I would be honored, Jamie.”

His smile was dazzling. She squeezed his hand, brushed the crumbs from her uniform, and pushed back her chair.

He gathered their lunch dishes and set them to the side before following her out of the staff dining room.

In the darkness of the hallway, with nobody else around, he pressed her against the wall and kissed her. Tasting spicy mustard and salty pickle and the joy of forever.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/185246423764/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 13: The Warning**

**September 25, 1904**

 “Oof!”

Henry giggled. “Come on, Jamie, I didn’t hit you _that_ hard!”

“Oh, but you did!” Jamie knelt on the cool tiles of the Beauchamp’s entryway to give Henry a proper hug. The little boy was ecstatic to return it. “Did you have a good day?”

“I did!” Henry pulled back to give his Mama a hug of her own, smacking kisses on her cheeks. “Grannie and I listened to the Victrola this morning, and then Nanny Fitz and I went to the park, and I played on the merry-go-round, and oh! I met a friend of yours, Mama!”

Claire pulled back, holding Henry by the shoulders. “What friend?”

“Yeah!” Henry wriggled beneath her grip, fishing in his pocket, and produced a wrinkled envelope. “He was wearing one of those funny round hats, and he said he was a friend from the hospital where you work.”

Her voice trembled just a bit. “It’s called a derby hat, Henry.”

Jamie lay a strong hand on Claire’s back as she gently took the envelope from her son’s sweaty fingers. She turned it over – to see _Dr. Claire Beauchamp_ inscribed in an elegant hand.

“Was Nanny Fitz with you, Henry?”

The boy straightened at the suddenly serious tone of Jamie’s voice. “She wasn’t right next to me – I had been on the merry-go-round, and then Robbie jumped off to chase Michael behind the tree, so I went after him, and that’s when I saw the man.”

Carefully Claire slit the envelope with the small pair of surgical scissors she always carried in her pocketbook. A single sheet of heavy paper – embossed with what Jamie recognized as the logo of Wentworth Industries – slipped out, covered with the same elegant calligraphy.

Now Jamie stood, taking Henry by the hand. “Is dinner almost ready, Henry?”

“Mrs. Crook said so. Salmon tonight.” He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like salmon too much.”

“Where are Grannie and Grandpa?” Claire also stood, a shallow smile plastered to her face.

“Up in the parlor. They didn’t want to wait for you for dinner, but I wanted to see you.”

Claire kissed her son’s forehead. “Can you please go see if Mrs. Crook or Lizzie need any help with dessert? Jamie and I need to talk to Grannie and Grandpa.”

Henry scampered down the hallway without as much as a goodbye.

Jamie turned to Claire, who by now had gone as white as the sheet of paper she held between two careful fingers.

“It’s French.” Her voice was very, very far away. “Can you read French?”

“No – but I assume you can?”

She swallowed.

“ _L'oiseau que tu croyais surprendre_  
Battit de l'aile et s'envola.  
L'amour est loin, tu peux l'attendre;  
Tu ne l'attends plus, il est là.  
Tout autour de toi, vite, vite,  
Il vient, s'en va, puis il revient.  
Tu crois le tenir, il t'évite,  
Tu crois l'éviter, il te tient!”

Claire’s voice speaking a foreign language was one of the most beautiful things Jamie had ever heard.

She handed him the paper; he scanned the gorgeous penmanship. “Is it a poem?”

“It’s a stanza from an aria in _Carmen_ , the opera by Bizet.”

Memory flared. “That was the opera….”

She sighed deeply. So full of sorrow. “Jack knew I’d been dying to see it. He got the tickets to impress me – we sat in his father’s box. I was so excited that I bought the libretto two weeks before and read it three times cover to cover – I still have it upstairs.”

His free hand found hers. Held it tight as she remembered.

“The aria is Carmen’s first scene in the opera. She’s a gypsy – a voluptuous beauty who all the men salivate over.”

Ice closed around his heart. So angry that this cruel, callous man would think of Claire in such a way. “How would you translate this passage, Claire?”

She took the paper. Held it at arm’s length. Spoke in a strong voice:

“The bird you hoped to catch  
Beat its wings and flew away.  
Love is far, you can wait for it;  
You no longer await it, there it is.  
All around you, swift, swift,  
It comes, goes, then it returns.  
You think to hold it fast, it flees you,  
You think to flee it, it holds you!”

Footsteps in the hallway – and Julia emerged, face puzzled.

“Claire? Jamie? We heard you come in – ”

“Jack sent his goon to meet Henry in the park today.”

Julia Beauchamp used a word that Jamie hadn’t expected to be part of her vocabulary.

Claire Beauchamp squeezed Jamie’s hand. Set her chin. Looked at her mother with defiant eyes.

“We have to get him.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/185382925372/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 14: The Question**

**September 30, 1904**

_This appeal to help the youngest victims of the Slocum tragedy was published in the New York Daily Tribune on August 31, 1904. “None of these children are maimed or sick in the ordinary sense of the word - it is more heart sickness with them.” These simple words say so much. Proving that the survivors of this tragedy - especially the youngest ones - had deep emotional scars._

 

Claire poured another cup of tea, watching the motorcars rumble by on East Twenty-Second Street. Reflecting on all that had transpired over the past five days – which tonight felt more like five years.

Jamie’s exposé on the Knickerbocker Steamship Company had actually led to a riot in what remained of Kleindeutschland. Hundreds, then thousands of angry New Yorkers – families and friends of those who had died on the Slocum, as well as many others outraged that the company’s callous negligence had contributed to so many unnecessary deaths – swarmed the Company’s offices on lower Broadway. Dozens of police officers and private security guards had only barely restrained the mob from breaking down the door and ransacking the premises.

Already, local politicians called for the heads of the Company’s directors and its two major shareholders – the Randall family via Wentworth Industries, and the Fort William Company, led by Silas Hawkins. Neither man had appeared in public since the story broke, though their attorneys had certainly been earning their fees, burying the _World_ ’s office with all manner of threats of litigation for reputational damage.

At Mr. Pulitzer’s request, Jamie hadn’t yet returned to his desk in the _World_ newsroom, instead conducting his business from either the Beauchamp family townhouse or Henry Beauchamp’s architecture firm just a few blocks away in the Flatiron Building off Madison Square. He was still hesitant to leave Claire’s side or let the younger Henry out of his sight, heart full of quiet terror from the message delivered in the park.

But tonight there was no such trepidation, for they had decided to tell their son about the future. Jamie had asked Claire’s permission to speak with Henry alone as he prepared for bed – though he had left the door ajar, so that Claire could hear every word.

“…So thoughtful of you to ask Mrs. Crook to make my favorite potatoes for supper.”

In her mind’s eye she could see Henry shrug. “I know you like it.”

“I do – I really do. You’re very kind and considerate, Henry. That’s why I need to ask you something very important.”

Claire straightened in the window seat, pressing a clammy palm against the cool glass. Jamie had asked if she wanted a diamond ring; she had replied that it would only get caught in her surgical gloves.

“What is it? I’ve been very good the past few weeks.”

“I know you have.” She heard his smile. “It’s not about you. It’s about your Mama. Well – your Mama and me.”

She heard Henry’s small feet thump against the side of the chair. “Is she sick?”

“No, little man. She’s quite all right. I – I – well. I’d like to ask your permission to marry her.”

Never before had she heard her son gasp.

“Really? But I thought that was Grandpa’s job – to give you permission.”

“Yes – it can be. But can I tell you a little secret?”

“I promise not to tell anyone.” Henry’s reply was in the loud whisper so common to children.

“Good. The secret is that your Mama doesn’t need anyone else to make decisions for her.”

“But that’s not a secret!”

She could hear his smile. “Well then – think about it this way. At the end of the day, Henry, only your opinion really matters. So – may I have your permission?”

A pause.

“Will you live here all the time?”

“Yes – that’s the idea.”

“And will we get our own house?”

Claire clenched her hand into a nervous fist. They hadn’t even thought about it.

“Not right away – maybe not ever. That’s a decision that you and me and Mama will make together. All right?”

Next she heard soft footfalls on the carpet – and suddenly her son was standing right before her, dark brows creased, arms folded across his blue bathrobe.

“Mama?”

She smiled thinly. “Yes, lovie?”

“Did you know that Jamie wants to marry you?”

She bit her lip so that her smile didn’t widen too much. “Yes, I did. We talked about it a few days ago.” Gently she took his hands, searching his face. “How do you feel about that?”

Jamie’s tall form – silhouetted from behind – appeared in the doorway. Listening.

Henry tilted his head, considering. “I want him here all the time. And he makes you smile, Mama.”

Now she smiled as widely as she could. “Yes. He does. He makes _you_ smile too.”

He nodded. “So yes. It’s OK with me, but only if it’s OK with you, Mama.”

From nowhere, tears welled. “Oh, my sweet boy.” She tugged his hands and folded him in her arms, holding him tight. “I’m more than OK with it. So much more than OK.”

And then Jamie was there beside them, holding them, and she feared her heart was going to burst with joy.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/185540338477/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 15: The Evening**

**September 30, 1904**  

  
  


_On August 31, 1904 the New York Daily Tribune published an appeal to help the youngest victims of the Slocum tragedy find a brief respite in the countryside - “None of these children are maimed or sick in the ordinary sense of the word - it is more heart sickness with them.”_

_One week later - September 6, 1904 - the newspaper published just a few letters from the dozens of kind-hearted New Yorkers who volunteered to provide this service for these children. Giving them a sliver of happiness and joy and sunshine, amid so much horror. “One little girl who has just come back from Tenafly [New Jersey] seems literally to have new life put into her.”_

_—_

“Thank you, Julia.” Jamie kissed his soon-to-be mother-in-law on the cheek, gratefully taking a glass of whisky from the tray she’d brought into the sitting room on the ground floor.

“We all need at least two of these tonight,” she smiled as Claire took her own glass, settling against Jamie’s side on the couch.

Julia set down the tray and eased into a chair. “Did Henry get to sleep all right?”

“He did.” Claire closed her eyes at the first burn of whisky. “I feel bad he’s been cooped up in the house the past few days – thank God Papa didn’t build that sunroom, so that we still have the garden out back.”

“I asked his permission to marry Claire.” Jamie’s free hand squeezed Claire’s. “He said yes.”

Julia’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh, my. How thoughtful.”

“I’m going to take Jamie’s name when we get married – and then we’ll start the paperwork for him to adopt Henry.” Claire squeezed Jamie’s hand. “We want to keep living here, at least for a little while. Henry can’t have too much change. That is, if it’s all right – ”

“Don’t even think of asking.” Julia smiled from behind her whisky. “This is your home – you too, Jamie.”

“It’s been home since the first time I crossed the threshold,” he smiled. “I know I’ve said it before, but being part of your family is something I never dreamed I’d have, the first time I saw Claire.”

Footsteps on the hallway floorboards – and then the elder Henry appeared, shoulders slumped. Julia held out a glass of whisky, and he bent to kiss her in gratitude before settling in the other chair.

“I’m so glad we put in that telephone last year. We’ve been getting more use out of that contraption these past few days than I ever thought possible.”

“Who have you been speaking with, love?”

Henry rubbed tired eyes. “First my stockbroker. I’m not sure if your colleagues at the paper told you this, Jamie – but in the past three days, the stock prices of both Wentworth Industries and the Fort William Company have completely collapsed.”

Julia gasped.

“How bad?” Jamie set down his empty glass, wrapping his arm around Claire.

“More than half. Meaning that Randall and Hawkins’ millions are now mostly gone.”

“Oh my God.” Claire’s hand flew to her heart.

“Nobody knew before that they owned the Knickerbocker Steamship Company, Jamie. How is that possible?”

He shrugged. “Boss Tweed hasn’t been gone from the political scene for very long, Henry.”

“True. And the stock prices can still recover, of course.”

“Of course. But the damage is done.” Claire twined her fingers through Jamie’s.

“I wouldn’t say ‘done,’ Claire. Randall and Hawkins can still fight back.”

“Yes – Mr. Pulitzer told me today their lawyers have already filed defamation lawsuits against the _World.”_

“But on what grounds?” Julia passed a plate of cookies to Claire. “It’s not like the paper manufactured facts out of thin air. They _do_ own the company. You just reported the truth.”

“That doesn’t matter, love.” Henry toed off his loafers. “The whole point is to gum up the works. To distract. It’s worked for them and people like them, hundreds of times before.”

“And it still doesn’t bring the captain and crew of the Slocum to justice.” Jamie chewed on a gingersnap – his favorite, baked fresh by Mrs. Crook just for him at least twice a week. “It’s easy to go after the owners. It’s a whole other thing to go after the people who were actually there on that day.”

“So how does that happen?” Claire took Jamie’s half-eaten cookie and popped it into her mouth. “Wouldn’t that be a criminal case?”

“Yes. Probably criminal negligence, for starters. And the same charges can – should – be filed against Knickerbocker.” Henry took another sip of whisky. “That was my second call – to our attorney. I told him what happened in the park with Henry. Claire, I hope you don’t mind –”

“Oh Papa, you know I don’t. I just want to know if what happened was actually illegal.”

“It’s not. Joe was very clear – no physical harm, or intention of harm, was made. And of course there’s nothing to prove that the Randalls put the man up to it – nothing to trace him back to them.” Henry paused. “You have to consider, Claire, that if you pursue charges against the Randalls, you’ll have to explain to a lot of people why you have those suspicions. And one way or another, many more people will find out about Henry and how he came to be.”

Jamie’s arm tightened around her shoulders.

“I understand.” Her voice was tired but strong. Clear. “And I don’t want that.” She pursed her lips. “I’m not ashamed of Henry. I just don’t want that family to get any more attention, for any reason.”

Jamie knew just how strongly Claire felt about the subject; they had discussed it at length the night before. Sitting in Claire’s window seat on the fifth floor of the brownstone, both clad in their pyjamas and bathrobes, Henry asleep in the adjoining room. Passing a tumbler of whisky back and forth. Sharing hopes and dreams and smoky kisses. A coziness they could look forward to for the rest of their lives.

One day Henry would be told the truth – but that day wouldn’t come for a long time yet.

“And then my last call was with Jerry MacKenzie – Jamie, I don’t know if you’ve met him, but he’s my partner in the architecture firm. Someone called the office today and said that the Randalls’ cottage in Newport may be up for sale, and they already wanted an estimate – ”

Four loud knocks sounded at the front door.

Immediately Jamie rose, pulling Claire behind him.

Already Henry was at his wife’s side. “Julia, darling – the Colt, if you please. Quickly.”

Julia turned to a side cabinet next to the fireplace, set a Chinese porcelain bowl on the mantel, pressed down on the marble top – and swiftly produced a snub-nose revolver, its mother-of-pearl handle gleaming in the gaslight.

The knocking continued.

“Upstairs.” Henry palmed the revolver and strode to the door in his socks. “Claire – Julia. Now.”

Swiftly they disappeared. Jamie took his place at Henry’s side as he opened the door –

And Mary Hawkins Randall tumbled into the vestibule.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/185724460641/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 16: The Truth**

**September 30, 1904**

_Excerpt from the July 2, 1904 edition of “Fire and Water Engineering.” Even from the very beginning of the investigation into the Slocum tragedy, many knew that the Knickerbocker Steamship Company - which owned and operated the Slocum - was unlikely to be held fully accountable for the disaster._

**_–_ **

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want anything else?”

Mary Hawkins Randall smiled thinly. “No, Mrs. Beauchamp – you’ve shown so much kindness to me already, after I intruded on you so unexpectedly.”

Julia patted Mary’s hand, wrapped around a large ceramic mug of tea. “Nonsense. I know it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, but I hope you know that you’re always welcome here.”

“Mama and Mary’s mother, Anne Grant, grew up together,” Claire explained, clasping Jamie’s hand beneath the long dining table.

“Her father sold shoes to my father’s department store.” Julia pushed a fresh mug of tea to Mary. “Anne always had the cast-offs – it was great fun to visit their house and play dress-up.”

“I can’t believe it’s been eight years already since we lost her.” Mary sipped her tea; the thin gold band of her wedding ring glinted in the dim light. “Between looking after Papa, and then the whirlwind of my marriage to Jack…”

Jamie threaded his fingers through Claire’s, soothing her suddenly clammy hand with his thumb.

Henry Beauchamp folded his hands on table. “Joe will be here any minute. You won’t need to wait much longer. I’ll say it to you again, Mary – you’re doing the right thing. You’re very brave.”

“Am I?” She pursed her lips. “To come to your home, unannounced, while my husband is out God knows where and my family is up in Newport, to avoid the shame of showing their faces in polite society?”

“As I said earlier, we don’t need to print your name in the paper. Mr. Pulitzer will understand.” Jamie rolled a pencil back and forth on the shiny mahogany table.

“I have nothing to lose.” Mary’s voice was strong, yet it sounded very far away. So full of sorrow. “My marriage is a sham. My family and my husband’s family are crooks and cheaters. They’re the ones responsible for the Slocum disaster. All those people…”

This time, the three raps at the door were met with great relief.

Henry rose without a word and disappeared into the entryway.

Claire straightened up a bit in her chair. “Is Jack not in Newport with his family?”

“He hasn’t been home in two days. He’s done this before – stayed at his lady’s place over on Pearl Street.”

The fact that she shared this terrible secret so matter-of-factly told Claire everything she needed to know.

“I’m sorry.”

Mary’s beautiful blue eyes suddenly became weary. “The last time he was home, he was ranting about you, Claire. How alluring you are. How he regrets.”

Claire swallowed. “Regrets what?”

Footsteps in the hallway – then Henry returned, a tall black man beside him.

“Mary – this is Joe Abernathy. He’s our attorney and a long-time family friend.”

“Mary,” Joe nodded, then came around the table to kiss Claire and Julia hello.

Jamie rose, extending one hand. “Pleasure to finally meet you, Joe.”

Joe smiled. “Oh son – the pleasure is all mine. You’ve been doing God’s work with your articles.” He settled into the chair beside Jamie and across from Mary. “And I understand that that’s part of the reason why I’m here tonight.”

Mary finished her tea and pushed the mug to one side. When she spoke, her voice was strong and clear.

“I can furnish evidence that both Wentworth Industries and The Fort William Company knew about safety concerns with the Slocum, and did nothing to remediate those concerns. In short, that they can and should be held accountable for the disaster.”

“And my understanding is that those companies are led by your father and your father-in-law. Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“And why would you speak out against them?”

Mary briefly turned away to rummage in her satchel. “Because they are bad men. Because their negligence led to the deaths of more than a thousand innocents.”

She pushed a folder across the table.

“Because I’m the only one who can make this right.”

Joe opened the folder, pushing it a bit closer to Jamie so that they could examine the contents together.

“It’s all there.” Mary closed her eyes. “Memoranda on company letterhead. Letters from captains of Knickerbocker-owned ships asking for new life vests and lifeboats. Handwritten notes of conversations that took place in Wentworth’s offices.”

Jamie held up an invoice. “The Slocum had an accident last year?”

Mary sighed. “It did. Tugboat crash down in the Buttermilk Channel. Damaged the rear – she took on a lot of water. One of Randall’s friends owns a small shipyard down in Red Hook – he did all the repairs. Kept it quiet.”

Joe scribbled on his notepad. “And let me guess – it was never reported to the city.”

“Of course not. They couldn’t risk losing their license.”

Jamie sifted through the papers. “Holy God.”

“What?”

He turned to Claire, then Joe. “Here’s a letter from the shipyard owner, asking whether Randall was sure he didn’t want, quote, ‘the waterlogged life vests to be replaced.’”

“Those bastards knew the safety equipment was damaged,” Julia seethed.

Claire’s hand flew to her mouth. “No wonder my patients told me the life vests had disintegrated in their hands.”

“It’s not quite the smoking gun, but this should be plenty to start with for a criminal negligence suit.” Joe turned to Jamie. “How much of this do you want to print?”

“As much as I can,” Jamie replied cautiously. “Whatever Mary will allow. All anonymously sourced, of course.”

“It’s all yours.” Mary held her face in her hands, drained of all energy and vitality. “I don’t want it anymore. I’m done with all of them. Done with that life.”

Joe darted a glance at Henry, who nodded. “Mary – do you need a divorce attorney?”

His voice was so gentle.

Mary covered her face.

Immediately Claire rose, rounded the table, and took the younger woman into her arms, her thin frame shaking with silent sobs.

“Sshh,” Claire soothed, meeting Jamie’s worried gaze. “You’re doing the right thing, Mary.”

“Am I?” Mary sniffed. “I’m so ashamed.”

“There’s absolutely nothing to be ashamed about, Mary.”

Mary hiccupped. “Oh, Claire – you were the only woman who ever got away from Jack. I knew you’d understand.”

Now Julia stood beside Claire and Mary, gently helping Mary to her feet. “Let’s get you to bed upstairs – will you men be all right down here?”

“More than all right,” Jamie replied. Claire gave him a thin smile before helping her mother get Mary up and out of the room.

Jamie stood. “I need to call Mr. Pulitzer. Joe – if Henry gets us some food, are you ready to settle in for some work?”

“We’ve got some roast beef in the pantry,” Henry offered.

Joe cracked his knuckles. “Gentlemen – this is gonna be big.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/186209955583/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 17: Dawn**

**October 1, 1904**  

 

_Extract from the Report of the United States Commission of Investigation Upon The Disaster to the Steamer “General Slocum,” published on October 8, 1904 by the United States Department of Commerce. The report included a letter by President Theodore Roosevelt - a native New Yorker - to the Secretary of Commerce, imploring him to file criminal charges to punish those responsible for the Slocum tragedy._

 

Sunrise.

Jamie wearily climbed the stairs, yawning as he reached the landing outside Claire’s rooms. The door to the spare room where he normally slept was closed – fervently he hoped that Mary had finally found some rest.

So he removed his shoes, stepped into the sitting room, looked in on Henry – curled tightly around George, his favorite toy bunny – and padded into Claire’s bedroom.

For a moment he just watched her – dark curls exploding on the pillow, the quilt all the way up to her chin. Then she opened her eyes, smiled sleepily, and opened her arms to him.

Gratefully he dropped his jacket and lay down next to her, on top of the quilt. Wrapped an arm around her. Pressed his forehead to hers.

She rubbed her nose against his. “All done?”

He nodded. “Mr. Pulitzer and I decided to sit on it for a few days. He’s dispatched some guys to do more research – to dig into the leads Mary gave us. Corroborate her story. But it’s just a formality at this point. We’ll publish it the day Joe files his lawsuit.”

“Do you think we can ask some of our friends who lost family on the Slocum to serve as plaintiffs?”

Jamie smiled. “I already called around last night. Mr. Pulitzer has sent messengers to Herr Müller up in Yorkville, and the head of the organization that hosted the party at the beer garden. Between them we’ll find enough people.”

“That’s so great. You know, Joe has been a true friend to Papa for many years. I forget how they met – but Papa hired him right out of law school to be his firm’s attorney. So many other firms wouldn’t hire him, just because of his color.” She sighed. “He’s been crucial to Papa’s success. And he and his wife and family are dear friends of ours. They have a son close to Henry’s age.”

“Your family has a knack for supporting people that most of society wouldn’t, hmm?”

She kissed his cheek. “He can file the paperwork so that you can adopt Henry.”

He kissed her on the mouth. Wanting more.

But she pulled away. “I need to tell you something.”

“Anything,” he breathed.

She pulled back a bit on the pillow, and raised her hand to smooth the hair back from his forehead. “It took a long time for Mama and I to calm Mary. It’s so hard for her, knowing she’ll be losing everything by doing this.”

Jamie kissed her forehead.

“Jack charmed her. I know exactly what that feels like. And her family really pushed for the marriage, to unite their business dealings. Mary really did love him for a while, poor thing.”

“But?”

“But he’s been seeing other women – multiple women – since before they married. He’s barely home. She’s bored out of her mind, because he won’t let her work.”

“Stupid man.”

“When your articles came out – there was panic. Her father and Jack’s father came over to their townhouse. They drank a lot, and argued a lot. They hate you something fierce.”

“No big surprise there. But they’re in Newport, right? Far away from here?”

“Yes – they had to leave town. Because now they’re being shunned by their society friends.”

He held her tighter. “My God – _that’s_ why they left? For fear of what their friends thought of them – not because of the thousand bodies in the river? Have they no consciences at all?”

“Mary was right, Jamie. These are bad people.” She swallowed. “And after everyone left that night, Jamie – Jack…he…” She swallowed. “Mary said – ”

“Sshh.” He kissed her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids. “You don’t need to tell me.”

“Then he left her alone, and went straight to his downtown mistress. Mary, God bless her, gathered up all the papers that were left behind. And then went into their offices the next day for more – because why would anyone suspect her?”

“But why did she come here?”

“Mama said it herself – we had lost contact with her after her mother died. Like you said earlier – my parents have a reputation of supporting those who many wouldn’t.”

“And now Mary wants a divorce?”

“It’s the best thing for her. She’ll have enough money – her mother left her a sizable sum, which Jack can never get his hands on. But she’ll need to find a way to support herself. And a place to live – going back to her father is out of the question.”

“Not if he goes to prison. She’d have the house all to herself.”

Claire pulled herself from his arms and rolled flat on her back, rubbing her tired eyes.

“Claire – Claire. I’m sorry. I know it’s not appropriate to joke around.”

She sighed. “It’s been a long two days, hasn’t it?”

“It has.” Now Jamie turned to lay flat on his back as well. “Do you think it will be too cramped for us in here, after we marry?”

“I don’t see why – unless you have rooms and rooms full of possessions that I don’t know about?”

“Ah.” He smiled. “Just some clothes and books and mementos. Can easily fit in the spare room.”

Silence for a long moment. Somewhere down in the street, glass bottles clinked – the milkman, on his morning delivery route.

“What Henry asked you last night – if we’re going to continue living here…”

“We’ll decide it together. I’d love to have a place of our own – but I don’t want Henry to feel removed from his grandparents. And what about Nanny Fitz?”

“She doesn’t live with us now – but that’s a good point. We’d have to make sure it wouldn’t be too inconvenient for her.”

Jamie edged up on his elbow and looked down at her. “Would – would you consider us having more children, Claire? I don’t mean right away, of course – it’s completely up to you.”

She sat up. The quilt fell away from her shoulders; she was wearing one of his button-up shirts. With the top two buttons undone. He swallowed.

She took his free hand. “Yes. I want that. I want _everything_ with you, Jamie. My only…experience was the act that produced Henry. I want you to erase all those memories.”

“I will,” he vowed, voice low.

Her smile was so beautiful.

“Can you bolt the door?”

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

She released his hand, and undid another button.

“Holy God.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/186374503374/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 18: Breakfast**

**October 1, 1904**

_This cartoon was published in the New York Evening Journal. It speaks for itself, and the magnitude of public outrage in the wake of the Slocum disaster._

 

Four floors below Claire’s window, somewhere on East Twenty-Second Street a horse-drawn cart clopped by, hoofbeats echoing off the townhouses.

One floor below Claire’s rooms, gentle footsteps sounded on the house’s strong yet creaky floorboards as Henry and Julia Beauchamp perused their shared walk-in closet, helping each other dress to meet the new day.

Outside Claire’s bedroom, young Henry Beauchamp’s bare feet padded on the carpet as he dashed down the hall and careened down the stairs, intent on securing the first of Mrs. Crook’s breakfast scones.

In Claire’s bed, Jamie swallowed her scream in a deep kiss, as her locked ankles loosened a bit around his hips.

–

The sunbeam pierced through Claire’s curtains, and Jamie shifted away a bit.

“No,” Claire whispered against his neck, still holding him tight.

He held her closer. Savoring her skin, pressed all along the length of his body, safe and warm beneath the quilt. He shifted his head on their pillow so that they could just look at each other.

So much could be said now. But he knew, and she knew, that words could never be enough.

“You know,” she rasped after a while, gently stroking his stubbled cheek, “you’ve never said it.”

He turned his face to kiss the inside of her palm. Mesmerized by her.

“Neither have you.”

“I know we’re at the point where we don’t need to hear it, to know the truth of it. To know it for a fact.”

He twisted his body a bit, tangling his legs with hers. “I wanted you from the first time I saw you, Claire – but I knew I loved you when you opened your home to me, that first night.”

Her breath hitched – at the feel of him against her, at surprise from his words.

“You first,” he teased, kissing the tip of her nose.

“No, you first,” she insisted.

“Why?”    

Her fingers tangled in his hair. “Because I’m afraid.”

He nuzzled against her. “Of what? You know I’ll always protect you, and support you, and be true to you.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “I’m afraid if I start, I shall never stop.”

His smile was dazzling in the sunlight.

They both spoke the next words at the same time – not planning to, but so thrilled that they did.

“I love you.”

–

“There you are!” Henry grinned across the kitchen table as he carefully drank a glass of milk, crumbs still sticking to most of his face.

Jamie playfully ruffled his son’s hair before pulling out Claire’s chair and helping her sit, then sliding into his own chair beside Henry. “Did you leave anything for us?”

“Not to worry.” Mrs. Crook materialized at Jamie’s elbow, bearing a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs. “I know you were all up very late last night. Start with this – I’m brewing another pot of coffee.”

Claire unfolded the morning copy of the _World_ folded in front of her plate. “Is Joe Abernathy still here?”

“He left just about the time I came upstairs.” Jamie yawned widely; young Henry saw his chance, and swiftly helped himself to another piece of bacon.

“I strongly suggest you put that back.” Claire’s voice was gentle but firm, busily reading the front page. “Jamie hasn’t had much to eat yet.”

Henry huffed theatrically. “But Mama – you’re reading the newspaper! How did you see – ”

“Don’t you know that all Mamas can both see _and_ hear everything?” Jamie swallowed a mouthful of eggs and nodded his thanks at Mrs. Crook, who poured a cup of coffee and set down Claire’s plate of fruit and toast, all in one smooth motion.

“Really?”

“That’s why you _always_ need to be on your best behavior, right?”

Henry sighed. “Right.” He set down his now-empty glass of milk. “May I see the funnies please, Mama?”

Claire removed the front page of the newspaper. Jamie folded it and set it in front of Henry.

“Want to read it to me, little man?”

Henry pushed aside his plate, focusing on the creased newsprint in front of him.

Claire nibbled her toast and sipped her coffee with her left hand, her other hand holding Jamie’s tightly under the table. So thrilled to share this moment.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/186538222901/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 19: Intermission**

**October 15, 1904**

_“A Madcap Princess” ran on Broadway to rave reviews in the summer and autumn of 1904._

_Fully electric hansom cabs such as these debuted on New York City streets in the late 1800s._

–

“I’m sure you’re sick of hearing this, Jamie – but my God! What an impact you’ve made.”

Jamie blushed as Aidan McCallum, third-in-command in the New York City Police Department, pumped his arm in a strong handshake.

“It’s the least I could do, Chief – you know how greatly those victims suffered. How much they’re still suffering.”

Chief McCallum sniffed, his thick, walrus-like mustache shifting amid the deep-set lines of his face. “Oh, I know about that all to well. My wife, Amy – she’s volunteered for almost every charity initiative to support the orphans.”

A soft touch on his shoulder – Jamie turned to smile at Claire, who had returned from the bar with two glasses of Champagne.

“Chief McCallum – may I introduce my fiancée, Dr. Claire Beauchamp?”

The chief bowed, resplendent in his navy blue dress uniform.

“A pleasure. May I assume you’re _the_ Dr. Claire my wife keeps hearing about, from her work with the Slocum victims?”

“The pleasure is all mine, Chief. And you may. I’m fortunate to have treated a fair number of them – I work at the quarantine hospital on North Brother Island.”

“Where the ship wrecked. My God,” the chief gasped. “That must have been a sight to see.”

“Nothing short of hell on Earth, to be honest.” Jamie carefully sipped his Champagne, watching his fellow theatergoers mill around the lobby.

The chief shook his head. “Anyway – those articles you’ve been publishing in the _World_? Those bastards at the Knickerbocker Steamship Company have blood on their hands. You’ve single-handedly proven that.”

Jamie shrugged. “I’ve had help. But I’m grateful I’ve been given the platform. Mr. Pulitzer says that he got a call from President Roosevelt himself this morning. He’s eager to get the Department of Justice involved.”

“One of the more meteoric political rises in recent years,” Claire remarked, as Jamie’s arm tightened around her waist and settled on her hip. “New York City Police Commissioner for not quite two years. Then Assistant Secretary of the Navy for just over one year. Then Vice President for just six months, until poor President McKinley was assassinated – and now, he’s President of the United States!”

“You missed his two-year stint as Governor of this great state,” Chief McCallum interjected. “But you’re right, Dr. Beauchamp – Teddy has certainly gone places, these past few years. But he’s never forgotten his roots, here in New York. I hear at the Department that he’s been regularly checking in with my boss. Wants to make sure we keep an extra eye out in the neighborhoods where the Slocum victims now live.” He sighed. “It’s my job to keep people safe – and I can’t understand the thought process of those criminals at that company. Playing with people’s lives.”

Four notes in a quiet chime. The group looked up to see a young woman strolling through the lobby, hitting the xylophone – clearly the intermission was over.

Claire smiled at the Chief. “We better be getting back to our seats, Chief. So lovely to meet you – I’d love to meet Amy someday.”

The Chief touched the brim of his cap. “I’m sure she’d love to meet you too, Doc. And Jamie – well done. My department backs you up, one hundred percent.”

Jamie nodded his thanks, and Claire steered him back towards their seats.

“That’s the fourth man who’s buttonholed you tonight,” she remarked as they approached their row.

“All positive, thank God. Their praise is worth every ounce of effort we put into it.”

They sat back down, watching the heavy curtain draped across the stage.

“Do you like the show, Claire? I know we got the tickets at fire sale prices, since it’s closing in less than a week – ”

Gently she settled her free hand on his knee. “I love it. I love how ridiculous it is – it’s so nice to spend an entire evening laughing. Don’t you agree?”

He did. So much that during the entire second act of _A Madcap Princess_ – a hilarious mélange of screwball comedy and musical theater, set at King Henry VIII’s court – he watched her smiling face, rather than the farce unfolding on stage, and knew he was the happiest man on earth.

–

“I know you told me earlier, but – what happens now?”

Jamie slung his arm through Claire’s as they exited the theater at Broadway and West Thirty-Eighth Street. “It’s all up to the lawyers now. Railroad Randall’s lawyers, and Silas Hawkins’ lawyers, and Mr. Jerome, the District Attorney.”

“He’s made a name for himself as an anti-corruption crusader, from what I recall.”

“Yes, he has. He knows this is the case of a lifetime. Mr. Pulitzer says the criminal charges – criminal negligence – are certain, with the documentation Mary provided.” He stopped on the corner and raised his hand for a cab.

“I’m so glad Joe was able to help her out. Some time with his sister in Bergen County will do a world of good.”

An electric hansom pulled up – and Jamie and Claire eased into the open cab, Claire pulling her shawl around her shoulders against the October evening chill.

“Third and Twenty-Second, please.”

“All right, pal. You and your lady just hold on tight – this goes faster than the horses!”

Claire had just enough time to grip the side of the cab before they sped off, wind whipping her face, clutching Jamie’s hand tight.

They didn’t speak during the journey back – they didn’t need to.

Jamie knew his work with the Slocum was nearly done – all that remained was to cover the charges that would be filed, and then the trial, should Randall and Hawkins be foolish enough to not broker a plea.

As for Claire – she still treated Slocum victims as patients, and she still diligently made house calls both in what little remained of Kleindeutschland as well as uptown in Yorkville. That would always continue – but already there were new patients. New lives to heal; new stories to tell.

Somehow they both knew that this very strange chapter in their lives was ending.

And yet, another chapter was beginning. For five days hence, on her birthday, they would be married – not by a justice of the peace in the brownstone’s parlor, as she had originally planned, but in a small private ceremony at the Church of the Epiphany, just one avenue over from the Beauchamp family home. She had grown up attending Mass at the church, and Father Kenneth had been so kind and understanding when he had baptized Henry in a closed-door ceremony just days after his birth – no questions asked.

So Father Kenneth would marry them; her parents, and Henry, and Joe and Gail Abernathy, and Mrs. Crook and Lizzie, and Nanny Fitz would all be in attendance. Mr. Pulitzer had declined the invitation, saying that he’d be busy on a Thursday afternoon, and had sent the happy couple a check for one thousand dollars and a voucher for three nights at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, all expenses paid.

They would remain at the brownstone at least until the springtime. Settle in to their new lives together. Above all, make sure Henry became acclimated to the new arrangement.

Though truth be told, Henry had been the most excited when the three of them had visited Jamie’s dusty rooms on Stanton Street, the day before. For Henry took the lead in helping Jamie pack his boxes and move his furniture downstairs and into the apartment of his very grateful Irish neighbors. He had played with the five children until Claire announced it was time to go, sadly saying goodbye but happy to carry a small bag containing Jamie’s books.

Henry deserved a sibling. Jamie, thankfully, shared her enthusiasm in this regard.

New beginnings all around. It was all Claire could think of as the hansom driver careened down Broadway, dodging horse-drawn carts and weaving between tram lines and steering clear of the handful of other automobiles on the road. The wind blowing in her face reminded her of the summer she and her parents had spent on the beach when she was a girl, and she had insisted on riding the Whip and Steeplechase over and over again.

She and Jamie had to take Henry there, come springtime. Perhaps there would be another child on the way by then…

“Ah! Great work.”

Jamie jumped out of the cab and onto the pavement in front of the Beauchamp family brownstone. He helped Claire up, and together they fished for cash and coins to pay the three dollar fare.

“Thanks ever so much!” Claire waved as the driver doffed his cap and silently whizzed down East Twenty-Second Street, toward Second Avenue.

“That was fun!”

Jamie gathered Claire close, and kissed her smile.

“Come on. Let’s kiss our son goodnight.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/186698491598/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 20: The Waldorf-Astoria**

**October 21, 1904**

_A 1903 view inside the original Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. This iteration of the hotel was demolished in 1929 to make way for the Empire State Building, on Fifth Avenue and East Thirty-Fourth Street._

“This room is so ridiculous.”

Dr. Claire Fraser rolled over to see her husband’s sleepy smile. “How many geese do you think were sacrificed for this mattress?”

Jamie gathered his wife closer. “Well, we can’t help that Mr. Pulitzer wanted to be so generous.”

Claire snorted, tangling her legs with Jamie’s as the first sunrays darted through the parted velvet curtains. “This bedroom is bigger than our entire floor at the brownstone. Everyone from our wedding could have fit.”

“Though it wouldn’t have been as much fun, hmm?” he nuzzled.

“No,” she agreed – memory full of dozens of images.

The way the sun shone through the stained glass windows at the Church of the Epiphany, and how Henry’s black leather shoes seemed dipped in color as he proudly carried their wedding rings toward the altar. Her father’s kiss on her cheek, after walking her down the aisle and placing her hand in Jamie’s. The smiling faces of Joe and Gail Abernathy, and Herr and Frau Müller and Petronella and little Clara, and Mrs. Crook and Lizzie and Nanny Fitz, beaming from the front row. How her mother had dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief.

How Jamie’s eyes smiled as Father Kenneth led their vows.

Something monumental, said so simply.

Sealed with a kiss.

And then the delicious lunch back at the brownstone. Nothing too fancy – cold cuts, a loaf of wonderfully hearty German bread the Müllers had brought from Yorkville, roasted root vegetables, and an apple crisp for dessert. Champagne to toast – then wine, later on.

Followed by Claire and Jamie – Mr. and Dr. Fraser – surrounded by friends and family as they opened the gifts they insisted they did not need.

A book of Psalms, from Father Kenneth.

Two beer steins and a lovely embroidered tablecloth from the Müllers.

Three bars of Mrs. Crook’s homemade lilac soap.

Monogrammed handkerchiefs from Lizzie.

A cozy knit blanket from Nanny Fitz.

A pocketwatch from Henry – his father’s – and a garnet necklace from Julia – her mother’s.

And finally, the most monumental gift of all –

“These are adoption papers for Henry,” Joe Abernathy explained as he handed the small envelope to  Jamie. “You can sign these right now, and I can file them with the court tomorrow.”

Jamie turned to his son, looking smart in his best suit.

“Are you all right with that, Henry? May I become your papa?”

Henry’s small brows creased. “But you already are.”

“I thought you’d squeeze my hand right off, in the carriage on the way here.” Jamie kissed Claire’s brow, shifting a bit on the impossibly soft mattress.

“I couldn’t believe it was happening.” She sighed, so happy. “It’s just – ”

“I know, my love. It’s everything.”

He pulled back a bit, and she scooted up a bit, and they lay face to face on their shared pillow.

“Can you believe we have forever together?”

Tenderly he stroked her cheek. “No. But can you please remind me every day?”

–

“WOW!!!”

Claire rolled her eyes as Henry Fraser darted past her and sprinted straight for the bed.

“Hello to you too,” she laughed. “Did you miss me?”

“He was out like a light after the two of you left.” Julia marveled at the sumptuousness of the suite. “You know, I’ve never been to the Waldorf-Astoria. Your father has, for work-related dinners – but I had no idea these rooms were so…”

“Over-the-top?” Jamie grinned as he kissed his mother-in-law hello.

“Did you _really_ sleep in here?” Henry’s muffled shout floated from the other room.

Jamie shook his head and disappeared into the bedroom.

Julia turned to her daughter – her only living child – and squeezed her hands.

“How are you, lovie?”

Claire beamed. “Oh, Mama. I never imagined this would ever happen.”

Joy bloomed in Julia’s heart. “My darling girl. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy.”

Tears shone in Claire’s eyes. “I am, Mama. I very, very am.”

Jamie reappeared, Henry hoisted high on his shoulders. “Do you know what’s even more amazing?”

“What?” Henry almost vibrated with excitement, reaching up to touch the ornate ceiling as Jamie’s strong hands held him steady.

“The restaurant! I hope you’re hungry!”

Their laughter – father and son – echoed in the hallway. Claire’s heart couldn’t feel any lighter.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/186861547254/truth-to-triumph)

**Chapter 21: The Triumph**

_**March 15, 1905**   
_

_Spring has finally arrived in New York City, after a long winter that was cold and dark in more ways than one._

_For this spring we celebrate the justice meted to Denys Randall, Silas Hawkins, and much of the brass from the Knickerbocker Steamship Company. Guilty pleas admitting their criminal negligence in failing to ensure that functioning and adequate safety equipment was provided on the PS General Slocum on June 15, 1904. Criminal negligence in the deaths of 1,021 men, women, and children who just wanted to spend a nice summer day together._

_I’ve reported in the pages of this newspaper how Randall and Hawkins showed no emotion in the courtroom as they entered their pleas. I’ve also reported how these pleas are likely better for the thousands of living victims and families of victims, who do not need any more reminders of that terrible day last June, and have been spared the needless circus that would have been a criminal trial._

_Both men will be very old when – if – they leave their prison cells. Their family reputations and fortunes are in tatters. Pillars of New York City society have been dashed to smithereens. Many in the Randall and Hawkins families – who are fully innocent of any malice or wrongdoing – have gracefully accepted their new burden, and are taking great strides to make peace with the victims and their families._

_Some in these families, on the other hand, have not. Only now do I feel comfortable sharing how Denys Randall’s son Jack had an ugly confrontation with me and my pregnant wife outside the courthouse on the day his father was sentenced. Had it not been for the personal intervention of Chief Aidan McCallum on that day, there is no knowing whether we would have been injured – but at least Jack is now under the safe watch of doctors at Bellevue Hospital._

_Never before have I published my personal view in this newspaper, but I am grateful for the unwavering support and platform Mr. Pulitzer has given me. It’s my job as a reporter to share the facts of any matter – not my personal opinions._

_But I do want to share an opinion, and I believe many of you will share it along with me._

_Many lost so much last June. We shouldn’t ever forget that. And I’ll make it my life’s mission to not forget. As you may know, my wife and I are chairing a commission to plan a grand memorial to the victims, beginning with a commemoration ceremony for the first anniversary of the tragedy this June._

_But I implore you to please remember – at the same time that we have lost so much, we have also gained in many ways beyond measure._

_Our friendships. Our resiliency. Our strength. Our trust._

_New Yorkers are at their best when we are challenged. When we come together to help strangers from other lands, who speak other languages. When we become one._

_I know that in many ways, the events of June 15, 1904 proved to me that in the depths of despair, we find unity and strength. We have built a city whose strongest foundation is its people – resilient, but not brittle or breakable. Stronger because we have been tested._

_That’s my opinion. But I’m sure it’s shared by many of you._

_We must always remember what happened last June. I will continue this fight as long as you will let me._

_Thank you for giving me this platform to help so many of you._

_With deepest gratitude,_

_Jamie Fraser_

“Grandpa?”

Henry Fraser closed the book of his father’s essays. “In here!”

His five-year-old namesake great-grandson darted into the parlor of the brownstone. “You said we could leave at three. It’s almost three-fifteen!”

Henry chuckled as he carefully stood up from his easy chair. He was in very good shape for a man about to turn eighty, but he got quite stiff from sitting down sometimes. “All right, all right. Hold your horses. Got your hat?”

The smaller Henry nodded, placing a crumpled Yankees cap atop his messy hair. “Where are we going again?”

The older Henry took his hand and led him down the hallway and toward the stoop facing East Twenty-Second Street. “I want to show you something important.”

–

“I don’t get it, Grandpa. It’s just a fountain.” Smaller Henry cocked his head, holding his great-grandfather’s hand tightly. “What’s so important about it?”

Older Henry sighed, walking closer to the pink marble fountain, bearing the carved relief of two children and the inscription _They were Earth’s purest children – young and fair_.

“I want to tell you a story about another little boy, also named Henry.”

Young Henry darted away from a swooping pigeon.

“You remember the story I told you about my parents – your great-great-grandparents?”

“Yeah. I never met them.”

The elder Henry sighed. “No, you didn’t – and I’m very sorry you didn’t get that chance. Well – something very bad happened, 75 years ago today. And this fountain helps us remember that it happened.”

Young Henry frowned. “But why is it in this park?”

“Because this is the neighborhood close to where it happened. And the people who lived here wanted to remember it.”

“But why do we want to remember something bad?”

“Because even when bad things happen, good things happen, too.”

Two punks – spiky hair, and safety pins in their ears – strolled by.

Henry cleared his throat. “And something really, really good happened on that day.”

“What?”

“My mama met my papa.”

Henry scrunched his nose, eyes shielded from the sun by his baseball cap. “Grandpa Jamie and Grandma Claire?”

“That’s right. They met because they were helping the people who got hurt on that day. And you know what?”

“What?”

“They were both a little hurt on the inside, too.”

Young Henry nodded, processing. For a while he watched the squirrels and pigeons darting in the shrubs and flowers of Tompkins Square Park, as dozens of people passed by – oblivious to the fountain, and the tragedy it commemorated.

“But they helped each other feel better, right?”

Henry Fraser’s eyes filled with tears. He coughed to clear his throat.

“They certainly did. Come on – let’s go over to Gem Spa and get an egg cream. I’ll tell you all about it.”

**~*~*FIN**


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [originally posted on tumblr](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/186885055151/truth-to-triumph-the-title)

##  [Truth to Triumph - the title](https://gotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com/post/186885055151/truth-to-triumph-the-title)

  


If you’ve wondered where the title to my story “Truth to Triumph” came from - it’s a lyric from the Lutheran hymn [“A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” ](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D8XUYZoguhEQ%26t%3D19s&t=ZDM3YzQ3NzQ0OGM5NDA4NDljYjg3M2M0MmVjNTUwMjFiMzYyMWNjYyw1UVpIZ3UweQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AD4g0V6eDPQOnNH0JBcjUww&p=https%3A%2F%2Fgotham-ruaidh.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F186885055151%2Ftruth-to-triumph-the-title&m=0)

A band played this hymn as congregants from the St. Mark’s Evangelical Lutheran Church boarded the PS General Slocum for their annual church outing on June 15, 1904. 

This is one of the last songs that many of the victims ever heard.

These lyrics haunt me. For in real life, the Slocum victims did not quite get the justice they deserved. 

So in my story, I made sure that God’s will was done - that His truth triumphed.

##  **_———-_ **

##  **_A Mighty Fortress Is Our God_ **

A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing;  
Our helper He, amid the flood of mortal ills prevailing:  
For still our ancient foe doth seek to work us woe;  
His craft and pow'r are great, and, armed with cruel hate,  
On earth is not his equal.

And though this world, with devils filled, should threaten to undo us,  
We will not fear, for God hath willed His  **truth to triumph**  through us;  
The Prince of Darkness grim, we tremble not for him;  
His rage we can endure, for lo, his doom is sure,  
One little word shall fell him. 

That word above all earthly pow'rs, no thanks to them, abideth;  
The Spirit and the gifts are ours through Him Who with us sideth;  
Let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also;  
The body they may kill: God’s truth abideth still,  
His kingdom is forever. 

– Martin Luther, 1529


End file.
